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duskandstarlight · 4 years ago

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Embers & Light (Chapter 39, NSFW Nessian)

Notes: Well, over a year you've had to wait for these two to seal the deal... BUT NO LONGER. And because I'm thankful to you all for sticking with this story, I've granted you with over 16k of sinful naughtiness. I think it's safe to say this is NSFW but you guys have read my smut before, you know the drill.

Embers & Light has always very much been the alternative story to Habits, but I couldn’t help but write in some crossover moments here to highlight the differences in events--timeline is a fascinating thing! Lemme know if you spot the moments :)

Please let me know what you think :) Comment and kudos will make my day!

I won't be able to write much of August (wedding & mini-moon) but I'll be doing my best to get you guys something as soon as possible. Hopefully by the end of the month, anyways <3

Oh! And I got a bookstagram. Find me at bookships.and.fandoms (and bear with me, I cba to take pretty pics atm)

Chapter 39 Cassian POV

Cassian stared at the doorway and the staircase beyond it, his gaze fixed and unwavering. Nesta had slipped out of the living room to follow Feyre up the stairs over ten minutes ago and he was already consumed with the biting sort of worry that gnawed at your insides.

He wasn’t concerned about what Nesta might be discussing with Feyre—that was her business—but because he couldn’t help but fret when it came to Nesta’s wellbeing.

It was a myriad of concerns that trampled through his mind like a herd of cattle. Had she slept enough? Had she recovered from being caught in the crowds the day before? Was her conversation with Feyre going to have her take three steps back rather than one forward? Cassian had spied the book of fairytales she’d slipped into her bag. Had guessed what she’d intended to do with it.

And then there was the fact that Nesta had left the bed before he’d woken again. Cassian couldn’t help but feel disappointed that she’d not been there when he’d opened his eyes, especially after the night before.

But that was how it was with he and Nesta. When the sun dipped below the horizon, Cassian often felt as if they were on the right path; as if once the world shut its eyes, the pressure was off and their play could continue. But as soon as light bled back into the sky, things weren’t the same. They weren’t cold… but Cassian felt suspended in a limbo of flirtatious banter and respectful distance. Which was hard, when all Cassian wanted to do was be as close to her as possible: to hold her hand and wind a hand through her hair. To kiss her brow and mouth and sink his teeth into her neck—

Cassian’s jaw tightened. He wanted to do wicked things. He wanted to make her moan and shatter. Wanted to know how she felt wrapped around him. Wanted to see if she’d gasp awake as he pushed inside of her.

Their trip home was going to be a turning point. Or at the very least it would be a milestone—a hammered notch as they progressed towards something. Yet, Cassian wasn’t naive: he wasn’t expecting Nesta to fall into his arms and never leave. But he hoped that it might make Nesta see their connection—not the tie between them, but the chemistry that Cassian knew would forever exist even if the mating bond was severed.

From the very first moment his gaze had settled on the haughty, vicious sister Cassian had known. Had nearly been brought to his knees—the heart-stopping moment so powerful, it suspended time as he felt something turn inside of him, as if something that had lain dormant had finally snapped open an eye.

And because of that Cassian would willingly allow Nesta to forge the reigns when it came to whatever it was between them. He could go slow. He would take the chance that Nesta might grow to accept him, even as he was seized by the terror that she might grow bored and draw a line under things before he had the chance to prove that he was worthy.

Cassian took a deep, steadying breath that made his ribcage heave. Thought of the lullaby that sat in his room at the House. Used that to ground himself and banish the painful thoughts.

Nesta had cared enough to gift him a piece of his past that nobody else had ever gone to the effort to find for him. And that was… everything. It was everything to him.

“I can hear the worry grinding gears in your brain.��

Rhys was standing where Mor had been a few moments earlier, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his eyebrows raised. Cassian hadn’t noticed Mor slip away. Couldn’t even recall what she'd been saying to him. Had he ignored her? He didn’t know. Didn’t really care. They all knew he was head over heels when it came to Nesta anyway.

Cassian blinked. It took him a moment to process Rhys’s words, but his body finally caught up. An instinctive grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and he commanded his eyes to sparkle, even though it was all fake. “I was under the impression you didn’t think I had one.”

Rhys didn’t chuckle or retort with something dry. Sometimes his brother allowed him to indulge in his self-deprecating behaviour, but it didn’t seem like today was one of those days. Instead, he cut to the chase. “They’re fine.”

Cassian bristled. Didn’t bother to pretend his mind wasn't solely on what was happening upstairs. “Feyre’s speaking with you now?”

Nesta would hate that. Would know if her sister was communicating to her mate whilst they were talking.

His brother’s laugh was as smooth as velvet. “No, she locked me out. It’s a habit she’s started recently and it’s usually coupled with the mental finger.”

This time, Cassian’s smile was genuine, as was the chuckle that chased it. “Feisty.”

“You have no idea,” Rhys responded with a wink.

Mor, who had breezed back to Cassian’s side with a new cup of coffee, rolled her eyes. “We do actually, you two are like rabbits.”

“We’re mated,” Rhys replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s to be expected.”

Mor lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Cauldron, I need to bed someone rather than hearing about my cousin’s exploits with my best friend.”

“Head to Rita’s and find yourself a pretty fae,” Cassian drawled, tugging Mor into a one armed hug.

“Mmm,” Mor hummed, but she chewed on her lip again. Glanced nervously at Azriel, who was in deep conversation with Elain. His shadows were tucked in neatly to his frame rather than trailing, ever-moving and loose around his body, but Cassian knew he could hear them.

Cassian dropped a friendly kiss to Mor’s head before he let her go. Tussled her hair, grinning mischievously when she squawked in disapproval.

As if sensing that his cousin wanted a change of subject, Rhys looked square at Cassian. “Azriel will come over later to update you on the latest movements.”

Cassian sobered as if someone had poured icy water down his back. “Not later,” Cassian corrected firmly.

Tomorrow. No the day after that. Cassian couldn’t guarantee that he’d be able to stop once he’d had his first proper taste of Nesta.

But of course they couldn’t do that—wouldn’t. The situation in Illyria was too dire for them to be so selfish as to lock themselves away for days.

It didn’t mean Cassian didn’t want to, though.

“You’ve got plans?” Rhys asked lightly and Mor froze.

You’ve got no idea, Cassian thought. But then realised his brother knew. Of course he did. Surely everyone in this room knew how desperate he was to get back to Illyria. To have Nesta in his bed again, writhing and moaning, their bodies slick with sweat as they moved in unison.

Clenching his jaw, Cassian grounded that desire between his teeth, until it was nothing but broken, delicious shards that scraped down his throat. His blood coiled. “Yes. Maybe.”

If she doesn’t change her mind.

“It has to be tomorrow, Cass.”

Biting back a sigh, Cassian nodded. “I know. Come at noon. I suppose I’ll be camped out in Illyria for the foreseeable future.” He cast a stern look at Mor. “Send me letters.”

“You have a housemate,” Rhys reminded him. “You’re not going to be entirely alone.”

Mor grinned slyly. “A very beautiful housemate.”

Cassian was more than aware of that.

He grunted and unable to stop himself, he voiced the fear that always niggled away at the back of his mind. “For now.”

But Rhys just loosed another manicured shrug, that was at odds with the ground-breaking revelation that followed it. “For a long while. Nesta has expressed her desire to remain in Illyria long-term despite the discontent. Assuming you don’t mind sharing your bungalow.”

It felt as if an iron band of hope was clamped around Cassian’s chest. He stared at his brother. Tried not to blink. Crossed his arms firmly over his chest, protecting his heart. “And you know this how?”

“Nesta spoke with me. We have arrived at a truce, of sorts.”

That must have been what they’d spoken about yesterday on the balcony. He wanted to know more—everything—but Cassian would not press Rhys. If Nesta wanted to tell him, she would. He had to respect that.

So, he bit back his curiosity and grumbled, “About time.”

Rhys clapped his hand on Cassian’s back, but there was something wary in his expression, as if there was something he wanted to say but wouldn’t. Finally, he said, “Patience is a virtue, brother.”

“I’m not the patient sort.”

“You are when it counts,” Rhys countered, and Cassian didn’t say anything because they both knew what he was referring to. Rhys had been the first to know. Had witnessed Cassian in a tangled web of despair and longing and unwanted visions. His brother had immediately put two and two together. Because he’d been there, too. Knew what it was to want someone you thought you couldn’t have. To hope that someone might finally grow to see you in colour rather than in black and white.

Cassian cast another look towards the empty doorway and the quiet hallway beyond it.

A shiver of anticipation ran through him. It was time for them to go home.

***

In the end, Cassian folded to his worry and had Elain fetch Nesta from upstairs. It was time to go, he’d insisted, even though there was no true reason as to why they needed to leave quite so quickly.

“No guesses required to identify why you want to head back to Illyria,” Mor muttered out the side of her mouth, as the creak of the stairs a few flights above heralded the sisters return. Cassian jabbed his elbow into his friend’s ribs and Mor yelped through her grin, even as she had to sidestep, the nudge throwing her off balance. “What? It’s all over your face. You think I can’t read you after five hundred years?”

“Don’t announce it to the room,” Cassian muttered darkly under his breath, “and you won’t find yourself torn to pieces.”

Mor briefly bumped against his arm, the jostle affectionate. Unfazed by his threat, she glanced sideways at him with rich chocolate eyes. “I won’t. We just want you to be happy, you know.”

Cassian’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Now isn’t the time for a lecture about finding a more suitable mate.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn’t meant to voice what he’d kept inside for so long.

Mor’s eyes widened, but she wound her arms around his waist. Cassian allowed her to tuck herself under his arm. His friend scented of citrus and cinnamon. When she craned her neck to look up at him, her expression was glowing with sincerity and Cassian realised that she hadn’t been insinuating that Nesta wasn’t right for him at all. “We’re all cheering you on from the sidelines, Cass, I promise.”

The muscle in Cassian’s jaw flexed. He looked away from her, towards the doorway again, unable to help himself. “Don’t say anything.”

She tightened her grip on his waist. “I won’t. I promise.”

“She doesn’t want it.”

Mor untangled herself from him. Shook her head in disagreement. “She does. She just isn’t ready to admit it yet.”

They both fell quiet as Nesta walked through the door with Elain and Feyre. The first thing Cassian noticed was that she scented of water and salt—tears.

Heart pattering with concern, Cassian quickly scanned Nesta’s expression and body language, searching for clues. But Nesta remained close to her sisters rather than apart, her fingers snagged in Feyre’s, her expression not in tatters but smooth and calm, like still waters.

“Ready to go?” Mor chirped from beside him. “I can winnow you back when Sala arrives.”

Nesta’s grey-blue eyes slid to Mor. “I called her on my way down.”

“Then you have time to see the snowdrops you gave me before you leave,” Elain responded eagerly, tugging at Nesta’s arm. “The cuttings took well to the soil. I planted them beneath the shade of the birch trees near the river.”

Cassian watched Nesta disappear into the garden. Surveyed the way a strand of golden brown hair that had escaped her loose braid floated on the breeze, as if it was part of the element rather than separate, as Elain bent to show her the snowdrops.

Yet despite the clear ease to Nesta’s movements, Cassian couldn’t help but ask Feyre whether everything was okay when she came over to hug him goodbye.

“We’re fine,” Feyre assured him, as together they watched Mor tentatively sit beside Azriel on the couch. For once the Shadowsinger’s shadows didn’t lighten, but Azriel still turned to her, drawn by some magnetism as she began to speak with him.

Slim fingers closed around his. Squeezed. “Thank you for fetching the book of fairytales for Nesta.”

The strand of ebony hair that had wrangled free of Cassian’s hair tie tickled the side of his forehead as he inclined his head. That had been a long time ago, when Nesta was a viper that he dared to poke with a stick, just so he could get a reaction. “Of course.”

“You travelled all that way on barely healed wings just to fetch a book.”

It wasn’t just a book, but Cassian knew Feyre understood that, so he only grunted, “Az took me most of the way. He waited to winnow me back.”

But Feyre’s eyes were burnished, as she asked, “Is there anything you won’t do for my sister?”

“It depends,” Cassian replied honestly. Because although he’d rather die than see Nesta hurt, Cassian wouldn’t hesitate to stand up to her when her fire was ill-wrought. And that’s what he liked about the both of them: if he was an ass Nesta told him straight, and he did the same for her. A grin slashed across his face. “Your sister has claws and teeth when she’s angry.”

It wasn’t long before Sala landed on her four large paws in the garden, prompting goodbyes. Mor winnowed Nesta and Sala, whilst Az’s scarred hand closed around Cassian’s arm.

Together, Cassian and his brother passed through realms of shadows and light and raging wings. Then Illyria was taking shape before Cassian bit by bit: there was the sting of winter on his cheeks, the crunch of snow beneath his feet, the scent of pine and untamed air. It felt like that wonderful first heave of your lungs after being starved from air. It alerted Cassian senses—woke him up.

Not bothering to say goodbye for the second time, Azriel bled straight back into shadow, but Mor raised a hand in a parting wave from where she stood beside Nesta and Sala. Her long golden hair caught on the breeze. It tussled behind her like its own puff of wind, before she vanished into nothing.

When Cassian’s eyes snapped to Nesta, he found her standing with her eyes closed, breathing in the wilderness of their surroundings. After a few beats, Sala jumped onto her hind legs, climbing up Nesta’s body with her snow-crusted paws to knock her head impatiently against Nesta’s.

A breath of laughter clouded in front of her as Nesta ruffled Sala’s ears. She murmured something Cassian couldn't identify in the manticore’s ear, before Sala dropped onto all fours and padded through the snow in the direction of the main camp.

Cassian watched the manticore go. He suspected Sala was going to seek out the widows camp and check everything was in order. It was the kind of thing Nesta would fret about—that whilst she was warm and fed, others might not be extended the same courtesy.

Or, the dark part of his mind whispered, she wants Sala out of the house.

You can fuck me wherever you like in the bungalow, Cassian.

The many needles of thrill pierced through him just as Nesta met his stare from across the snow. Suddenly, Cassian didn’t know what to say. His tongue felt swollen and thick in his mouth, words suddenly as viscous as tar. The atmosphere had altered—the aura surrounding them despite the distance suddenly heavy with promise: a change that pointed to something new.

The siphons on the back of Cassian’s hands glowed in anticipation. Nesta merely raised an eyebrow at him. Turned. Walked towards the house just as he caught the thick scent of jasmine and vanilla on the wind.

Cassian’s nostrils flared as it wound around him; invisible ropes of arousal. And then he was moving, following Nesta’s footprints.

His friends had winnowed them to the back of the house, halfway between the small stone outhouse and the backdoor. They weren’t far from the bungalow, but it felt like miles as Cassian stomped noisily after Nesta, his boots compacting the snow as if they were grinding shards of glass into powder.

When Cassian drew up behind Nesta, she already had a hand half-raised towards the door. Even though he wasn’t touching her, she was a whirlpool of warmth. It sucked him in, begging him to line his torso against her back, so when she cursed, realising she hadn’t taken her gloves off, Cassian didn’t hesitate to reach over her shoulder and rest his palm against the wood, encasing her.

The touch of his bare skin—or Nesta’s—was the key to the magical lock. A thunk sounded as the bolt released but Cassian didn’t push open the door—was too preoccupied with the female before him—who had twisted to stare up at him.

As soon as their gazes snagged, history began to knit together in a rush of thread, until it was a tangible, living thing. Because this moment had been written in the stars as soon as Cassian had seen Nesta in her amethyst dress in the human realm; her hair wielded into a mighty crown, her expression haughty and defiant, yet burning with the potential of a life not yet lived. They’d denied that history, even as it waited patiently in the wings. It had watched as they danced around each other, fumbling and snarling their way to this very moment—

They moved in unison. Cassian’s head bowing just as Nesta reached upwards; her body bowing to his, her palms sliding across his jaw until they were around his neck. Their lips met with a force that rattled Cassian’s bones. This wasn't a brush of a kiss. This was immediate and awakening: Nesta tasted like life and breath, like destiny. And yet again, Cassian knew with startling clarity that they were meant for this, he and Nesta. They were meant for each other and nobody could tell him otherwise, including her.

A soft breath whooshed out of Nesta as her back hit the door, but then Cassian was pushing it open, guiding her inside in a whirlwind of noise and wreckage.

The scrape of wood on the flagstone tiles sounded as Nesta’s back knocked against the table before Cassian turned them, his wings grazing against cupboards and the cool walls. Items clattered and shattered, but Cassian used his wings to keep a check on his surroundings, the touch guiding him to the left-hand wall where he could press her against the wall and devour.

Because Cassian could not tear his mouth from Nesta’s. Couldn’t stop tasting her. Couldn’t stop craving the roll of her tongue and the sound of her guttural moans. It fuelled a fireball inside of him; it roared into life in the centre of his heart, before spreading throughout his limbs, rushing through his body until it settled deep in his groin, aching and burning—screaming for relief.

When they finally hit the wall, the thud of their bodies shook the cabinets and the porcelain within it. Without thinking, Cassian took the brunt of it, his hand flying to cup Nesta's lower back and head to purposefully shield her from the hurt.

Because he was coarse and rippling, galloping towards a primal sort of wilderness that Cassian wasn’t sure he could control.

If Nesta was ignorant to the fact or wholly aware Cassian didn’t know. All he knew was that her hands were scrabbling at his leather like dancing flames, tugging him closer.

When he pressed his body over hers, aligning every inch of her to every inch of him, she whined.

Cassian swallowed it. Slanted his mouth across hers. Tucked his wings in tight as every muscle in him tensed in anticipation.

Nesta tasted of chai and vanilla and embers with a destiny to roar.

Another strangled noise came from her throat as Cassian sank his hands deep into the hair at her scalp, coaxing strands free from her braid as his fingers threading through her hair, just as he had done the night prior when he’d coaxed her to sleep. But this wasn’t a soothing touch. This was a touch to startle every nerve ending to life.

Time began to bleed around them, but Cassian only registered the fluidity of the frantic dance they had not learnt. The way Nesta arched into him as his palm slid back to span her waist. The pant of her breath against his skin. His heaving chest. The way his wings began to spread again of their own volition, like a fan unfolding to reveal a secret pattern—as if they were controlled by nothing but the ache of his cock as it strained against the leather of his pants.

As if in acknowledgement that his body was no longer ruled by him, his hips slanted upwards of their own accord. It was a desperate bid to relieve the ache, and his throat vibrated with a thunderous growl as Nesta dug her nails deeper into the leather of his jacket, using it for leverage as she arched into him.

Something turned further inside of Cassian, like a lock beginning to grind as a key turned. And then it felt as if he were plunging beneath water; ducking into the depths and travelling beneath an invisible barrier before emerging on the other side buoyant and surging with power.

Ruby crashed through his veins, like the walls of a dam broken free and… singing light. Magic roared so loudly in Cassian’s ears that he no longer heard the galloping beat of his heart or the sawing of their breath.

Reeling, he tore his mouth from Nesta’s. Her eyes were just as wide, puddles of startled moonlight—endless mercury—and Cassian didn’t need to look down to know that her hands were wreathed in silver.

For a moment they stared at one another. Time slowed until it was sluggish around them and then the feeling receded, as if Cassian was being carried by a wave as it was dragged unwillingly from the shore on thundering feet.

Sound bled back into Cassian’s ears, like raindrops slowly blotting paper. A moan whispered on a wind carried through him, the words fleeting—her name three times, like always—before they dispersed into nothing and ragged breathing filled the hole.

Fuck, they needed to be careful. He needed to be careful if just kissing her led to some transcendental experience. Cassian knew Nesta became open during sex—had seen tumbled images of tangled limbs and heard her moans—and he couldn’t afford to lose her when she had finally let him in. Couldn’t let her down, even though he wanted nothing more than to finally be found worthy by someone.

That twisted rope between them couldn’t widen and strengthen. Couldn’t finally open and click into place with a consensual snap.

Because Cassian had heard stories of mates who had gone to bed. Who had fleetingly accepted what they wanted in their hearts but not in their minds. And after they had both finished and life had been breathed into that bond, only death could sever their Cauldron-blessed connection.

Cassian would not have a mate with regrets, but he didn’t have the will-power to deny himself of her any longer. Not when he could scent how much Nests wanted him. When he could feel it like an unquenchable ache in his bones—an ache which made him tremble and shake. His rocky warrior exterior ground to nothing but sand.

As if Nesta could read his thoughts she tipped her head back, baring the column of her neck.

A resounding guttural sound dragged from his throat. The noise was animalistic and unchained. A booming crack ricocheted around the walls, the muscles in Cassian’s back burning as his wings snapped outward.

Something toppled from somewhere and crashed to the floor, but Cassian didn’t bother to raise his head to look at what it was.

And then time seemed to both slow and drive into a frenzy. Cassian launched at Nesta’s neck at the same time he tugged at her hair, urging her head to fall back even farther.

His lips were against the column of her throat in the blink of an eye; his teeth scraping, his mouth sucking until her blood pounded in his ears. Nesta’s knees buckled but Cassian quickly pinned her body to the wall, holding her up, his knee sliding firmly between her legs…

And… nothing. There was no panic or sensation of being trapped—no sudden fire launching him back thirty feet—but Cassian still tore his mouth from Nesta’s neck. Had to know she wasn’t panicking. “Ok?” he rasped.

A frown burrowed Nesta’s brows. Her swollen lips parted in confusion. Somehow it made her look more beautiful.

Cassian raised a shaking hand to trace it away. “Nesta. Are you ok?”

Understanding dawned like millions of unfurling petals.

When Nesta spoke she was short of breath, the words an exhale. “Don’t hold back.”

Cassian practically arched into her at the words but he made himself remain still, even as his body vibrated with tension. His bones creaked but he held fast.

That stubborn, beautiful chin lifted and Nesta’s eyes glinted wicked yet pure. Always an oxymoron, his Nesta.

“Don’t hold back,” she repeated, her voice stronger this time. She pushed her hips against his thigh and the friction had her lips parting, a shaky breath tumbling from her lungs. “I can take it.”

The words were like slashing knives of pleasure, severing the leash on any control Cassian thought he had.

The subsequent rush of air Cassian loosed was akin to a snorting horse.

Then he was moving and their mouths were fused together again, their tongues a delicious push and pull of control and pleasure before he yanked away.

“Thank fuck,” he gasped. His hands flew to her hips, guiding her to ride his thigh. “Thank fuck, Nesta.”

The friction had Nesta moaning, her fingernails digging so hard into the leather of his jacket Cassian was sure she had dented the material. But he didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything but the living fervour that clawed at them.

His hands were everywhere at once. Tangled in her hair. Sliding over her cheek. Cupping her ass. Attacking the buttons at the back of her dress, until they popped and scattered. Until he could pull the material down her arms, exposing tantalising creamy skin.

At the first sight of her breasts, Cassian growled. He bowed his head to capture a nipple sharply between his teeth before he laved over it with his tongue, smoothing over the wound. He relished the way Nesta cried out. Arched into him. She began to tear at his jacket. It snagged on his wings but Cassian shrugged it off until it hit the floor with a thud.

The first slide of Nesta’s palms beneath his tunic was like oil sizzling in a pan. Cassian hissed as the callouses of her palms scraped deliciously over his skin and scars and ink. Snarled as she made quick work of the stays and fastenings. Tried to focus on her other breast as she inched her hand beneath the tight leather fabric and eased him free.

Fingers wrapped sinfully around him, causing Cassian to snarl around a peaked nipple—to buck sharply—pressing them more firmly against the wall.

“Don’t bother,” Nesta moaned as Cassian wrenched desperately at the fabric of her dress, trying to coax it further down her body. She ground down onto his thigh as it to emphasise her point—her need—and the heat of her burned.

It was all Cassian needed to hear. He fumbled desperately with her skirts until a hand was under the material and sliding up her thigh. Until fabric ripped and her underwear fell away in what Cassian imagined to be a ripple of lace.

In one swift movement, Cassian lifted Nesta’s body upwards, until her legs were gripped tightly around his hips and her back was flush against the wall. Her hands flew to find purchase, grappling at the back of his neck, and when she was steady she raked her hand purposefully through the hair which had come loose from his tie. Tugged at the leather until his hair fell over his face. Whined. Tangled her fingers through the ebony strands as if they were her reigns.

Cassian splayed the hand that wasn’t supporting her body against the cold wall. Tried to catch his breath, but the position evened out the height between them. Just a slight movement would allow him to capture her lips with his, and Cassian couldn’t deny that demanding tug that drove him to devour. Nesta seemed to feel the same way. Moaned in relief as Cassian tasted her as if he couldn’t get enough, gave back as good as she got. Over and over they moved, until they were nothing but an undulating wave of tongue and teeth and groans. The pleasure was a surging, roiling entity. It was all consuming. It overtook Cassian’s body, demanding that his hand drag from her ass straight to her core.

When his fingers slid through wetness, Cassian’s groan sounded like thunderous defeat. He dropped his head to Nesta’s collarbone. Gently pressed his lips to her clavicle. To her shoulder. Tried to ground himself as he slid straight to the spot that made her keen—as pleasure ignited down the bond like a crashing wave. Brushed over it again and again and again. Relishing in the noises he coaxed from her. At the curling fists of desire that clenched agonisingly inside of him.

Cassian had to see Nesta fall. Had to look into her eyes as she broke.

But he wanted to be inside of her when it happened.

Cassian was reaching for his cock at the same time that Nesta let out a broken moan. “Do it,” she breathed. There was no bite of authority in her voice, as if all of the energy she had directed in the pursuit of pleasure had smoothed over the serrated edge of her personality he loved so much, leaving a softer version in its wake. “Please. Just—”

A satisfied snarl ripped from Cassian as he felt her want. And in that moment, Cassian knew there would be nothing gentle about how this was going to play out. It was going to be rough and frantic, riding a wave of pleasure that had been building for too long. Knew afterwards that they would sink to the cold floor in a mass of tangled limbs and mingled breath.

And Cassian wanted that. Had never wanted release so badly in his life.

Something clambered in the back of his mind. Something he needed to remember, but his limbs were moving of their own volition. He didn’t even bother to pump his cock or squeeze it to relieve the tension. Only cared about finally being inside of her.

The heat and slickness of her was sinful and divine when he lined himself up at her entrance. The hand he had braced against the wall came to span her cheek. It relied on Nesta clamping on tightly to his waist with her legs and the press of his torso against hers, but they managed it.

Shaking, Cassian raked back the hair that had fallen free from her braid back from Nesta’s face, just as she tugged him in for a bruising kiss.

There was a moment when everything paused and trembled. As Nesta pulled away and stared at him, her eyes swimming silver—glowing with it—her pupils obscured.

His magic surged at the sight of it. Crashed against his skin as if it was trying to escape. His siphons burned bloody.

“Cassian,” Nesta panted. Despite the keen desperation, there was cushion to his name. Gently, Nesta bowed her head until her forehead rested against his. The gesture was surprisingly tender. It tugged at his heartstrings, triggered his hips into movement as they finally pushed forward.

The tight heat that wrapped around him like velvet was so immediate that Cassian swore. Sweat trickled down his back and seeped into the tunic Nesta hadn’t gotten round to discarding. He trembled as Nesta’s breath stuttered and he felt the burning pain mixed with pleasure as he sunk in an inch. Felt the stretch of Nesta’s body as it strained to fit around him.

Claws dug into his back—Nesta’s nails—biting into his skin, until the metallic tang of blood infused the air.

Cassian’s body stilled before he even had a second to register that he needed to stop. That instinct buried deep to make sure she never hurt.

And then a knock rapped at the front door.

“No,” Nesta moaned. She shifted her hips and Cassian sank a little deeper. That pain flared again through the pleasure and Cassian grip on her turned vice like.

Sense stumbled into his desire addled brain, like a fawn on gangly legs.

But then it righted itself.

Another sharp rap at the door cleared his head completely.

He bowed to bury his face in the crook of her neck but Nesta whined. Tilted her hips again, urging him deeper. “Nesta, stop.”

“No.” Her whimper was doused in frustration, but all Cassian could feel was that sharp needle of pain.

He tried to pull back, but Nesta clamped down around him with that incredible strength of hers. The strength that only seemed to appear at times of desperation or anger.

Cassian’s jaw flexed, his features hardening. “I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not,” Nesta countered, defiance colouring her expression.

“I am,” Cassian retorted, not allowing for a passing beat of their hearts to pass before he replied. “I’m hurting you. Don’t pretend that I’m not.”

I can feel it, Cassian wanted to explain, but didn’t. Knew somehow that if he did they might not end up joining at all.

Desire fogged Nesta’s mind and it fuelled the punch to her next words. “I don’t care.”

Ire punched through Cassian’s desire enough for him to see red. “Well, I do,” he snapped.

Nesta’s nostrils flared at his tone and her eyes burned silver. Cassian wondered how everything had gone southward so quickly—they were on a sinking ship and he needed to patch it up. Knew she felt rejected. So, he kissed her and pushed back that unquenchable ache he felt for her. Knew it hit home because she gasped softly into his mouth, her surprise tart on his tongue.

He pulled out. As soon as his cock fell free that pain throbbed and ebbed. But Nesta moaned all the same.

Moaned again as he drew his head back to stare at her.

She surprised him when her eyes remained open rather than closed off. There was no hard shield. Nothing but want and a vulnerability that made his heart squeeze.

It gave him the courage to do the right thing.

He kissed her again. Trailed a thumb across her swollen lips, ignoring the desire that roared as Nesta sucked it into her mouth, her tongue darting across the top before the bit down lightly.

“This is how things are going to go,” Cassian murmured lowly, pulling his thumb out of her mouth and across her jawline, trailing the wetness all the way to the sensitive spot behind her ear. Nesta shuddered.

“I’m going to get the door and send whoever it is away,” Cassian continued. He paused to let the words sink in. Lowered his head to trace a path with his nose, up the slope of her shoulder, all the way up her neck until his lips were grazing the shell of her ear. “You will go to your bedroom. When they’re gone, I’ll find you.”

Another shiver coursed through Nesta’s body. Her fingers tightened around his neck.

When Nesta next spoke, Cassian knew he’d piqued her interest. “What then?” she demanded.

“Then I’m going to make you come until you see stars.”

Nesta’s entire body froze. For a long moment, she didn’t so much as breathe, but Cassian felt the throb of her blood and magic as it pounded against her skin.

Then, Nesta’s hands worked between them, until her small palms were splayed across his chest. She pushed firmly, indicating that she wanted to get her down. Her body slithered to the floor, her lean legs falling away from his body.

The sudden distance between them felt like miles.

Nesta lifted her chin. “Hurry or I’ll start without you.”

A breath heaved at Cassian’s lungs and he felt his pupils contract, pushing out his irises until they were swallowed by black. The image of Nesta sprawled on the bed wearing nothing but skin, her legs open, a hand moving between her legs had that coil within him tightening to the point of pain.

A growl spiked through the air as another knock sounded at the door.

Nesta must have known she’d wrangled back control, because she arched a cool eyebrow at him. “I thought you were going to answer the door?”

A dark chuckle forced its way out of his chest, but it was mechanical rather than true. Because there was nothing funny about resisting Nesta right now and his body seemed to know that.

Cassian reached for her before he knew what was happening. Rested his forehead against hers. Breathed once. Twice. “I need to calm down,” he confessed.

Nesta snickered, but the sound fell flat as her breath hitched upwards at the end. It betrayed the effect he had on her, even as she said silkily, “Did the image of me pleasuring myself get you hard?”

“I was already hard,” he growled. He pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth. “As you well know.”

A hand reached between them. Stroked over him—the touch feather light but tantalising enough that Cassian bucked into her touch.

And then cunning words, “Maybe I’ll let you watch.”

A string of swear words left Cassian’s mouth. He yanked back from Nesta, as if someone had tugged firmly on a leash. Tugged up his pants and jerked ruthlessly at the ties until they fastened, trapping his cock back into the leather.

With a growl, Cassian waved a hand towards the living room—to Nesta’s room to the right of it. “Leave before I fuck you against the wall, Nesta,” he barked.

Nesta’s sly laugh skittered over his skin, and without pulling her dress back up to cover herself, Nesta sashayed through the nearest arch and disappeared.

*** It had been Mas and Roksana at the door, laden with bags full of groceries and supplies from the market. With full access to the house, there was no reason why they shouldn’t have just come right in. Which meant Mas had suspected somehow, enough so that she had left the bags on the front step and remained standing with Roksana a few feet back.

“I am sorry Sinta, but the meat might spoil,” the housekeeper had apologised as soon as he’d opened the door, his hair a tangled mess from where Nesta had yanked it free of its tie. He hadn’t had the sense to recover it from the floor, but he had righted his tunic and fastened his pants.

And thank the Cauldron for that, because Roksana peeked up at Cassian with wide eyes from her position of safety behind Mas’s legs. He didn’t know when Lorrian had brought the youngling back to the camp, but Cassian guessed it hadn’t been easy on the two of them to take a little girl out of the warmth and back into the snow.

Cassian tried to soften the eyes that he knew were a little wild. He raked his hands through his hair and sent them his most disarming smile, but there was fuck all he could do about his scent. So he thanked her, trying to keep his voice light and conversational. Ordered her to take the rest of the day off.

To the housekeeper’s credit, she did not linger. Had merely nodded and rushed Roksana back into the snow, towards the main vein of the camp.

Yet, whilst the housekeeper’s interruption had been unwanted, it did grant Cassian some breathing space as he rammed perishables into the cool box. Because even though Cassian would allow Nesta to decide how this all played out, he needed to lay down a rule of his own: he could give her the space to decide what she wanted—for him to prove that he could be what she needed—but there was one thing he could not suffer through.

And if they had stormed ahead in a hurricane of lust; with Nesta’s back against the wall as Cassian pounded into her… Well, it would be too late for Cassian to lay down his one condition once they were sweaty and sated. Nesta was more likely to get up and walk away. To not look back.

Cassian found Nesta sitting at the dresser in her room re-braiding back her hair.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Cassian opened his mouth to explain who had been at the door, but an iron band closed fast around his chest, robbing him of breath.

“What are you wearing?” The words came out of him eventually, entirely uneven to the point of being choked.

Because Nesta was wearing his shirt. It was the same steel blue shirt she’d worn that first day in Illyria. The shirt that was an identical match to her eyes, purchased before Cassian had realising what his subconscious had done. A shirt he’d had to hide away in the spare room because Cassian hadn’t been able to bare seeing it in his closet—of being reminded that his mate was a ghost who had banished him away.

Go home, Cassian.

Nesta met Cassian's eyes in the mirror. Announced with cool simplicity, “You ripped my dress.”

“And this is your way of torturing me?”

An indifferent shrug. “Why wear my own clothing when I know what fate it will suffer?”

Cassian knew his nostrils billowed, but he remained propped up against the doorframe. Pretended he was stuck to it like glue because his body was trembling for him to launch across the distance and claim her mouth. Her neck. Her.

The silence seemed to unnerve Nesta. Cassian knew that from months of living with her. From months of studying her slight tells when her masks slipped.

Right on cue, Nesta reset her posture—a gesture that most people read as defiant. But Cassian knew it was also a sign of nerves. She shrugged with feigned indifference, even as her throat tightened and that damned pulse fluttered temptingly against her throat. “You liked it the last time I wore it.”

Cassian huffed a breath. He had liked it the last time she wore it, even if she’d been so gaunt that he’d worried she might wither away. But the shirt… it had put images in his mind that Cassian had long tried to store away, imprisoned in rock and flame: her in his clothing, not fucking other males but him, her lithe legs wrapping around his waist as he sank deep—

Which brought Cassian neatly to the point he needed to discuss with her…

Nesta’s eyes tracked Cassian in the mirror as he peeled himself out of the doorway and came to stand behind her. When their eyes locked into place, it felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. There was something deep in Nesta’s gaze that made it feel as if he was tumbling down a rabbit hole, that magnetism between them drawing him in like gravity.

When Cassian’s fingers brushed Nesta’s neck—ran down the braid she had draped over her shoulder—Nesta shivered. “You had your hair down then,” he rasped. Didn’t wait for her to protest, as he slowly coaxed the tie free from the end of her hair.

Nesta turned preternaturally still, watched him gently part her hair in the mirror until it fell free from her plait, his calloused fingers brushing over her skin as he coaxed her hair to fall down her back.

The pulse hammering at her throat and the warmth radiating from her skin were the only indications that Nesta was alive rather than stone.

Only when Cassian had finished and lifted his hands from her neck, did Nesta come back to life.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. But she cocked her head slightly to dissect him. “It’s a nuisance like this. It gets in the way.”

“It’s beautiful,” Cassian corrected, his voice rasping, like sand scraping against skin. He ran a hand through her hair as if to emphasise his point, his fingers running down, down, down until her waist.

When Nesta stood and turned into the warmth of him, Cassian scented what she wanted. But there was something else simmering in her expression—surprise. As if she’d caught the truth in his words and hadn’t expected someone to truly think her beautiful.

She stepped closer, until the lines of her torso ghosted his. Until Cassian’s heart pounded so hard he could hear the frantic tempo of it in his ears. Nesta tilted her head back so she could stare up at him and Cassian’s hand weaved through the mane of her hair before he could stop himself.

He was desperate to touch her again. Desperate.

But Cassian waited. Waited for Nesta to reach up on tiptoes and press her mouth to his.

The kiss was not like their bruised, desperate kisses from earlier. It was coaxing and unsure; the tentative beginning of something that was not merely fuelled by ardour. But it soon blossomed into something more, like a snowball rolling down a mountain blanketed white, gaining speed as it grew and grew—

Dragging his mouth away from hers, Cassian fought for breath. Battled to remember what he needed to do and say. But then Nesta was tugging his head back down again, her fingers tangled in his hair, the gesture indicative of an insistent need that Cassian knew would not go away.

As always, Nesta tasted divine. Addictive. He could taste the curl of her power on his tongue—silver and white, life and death—and he wondered if she could taste his. Knew his siphons were glowing scarlet—

“Nesta,” he murmured hoarsely, her name a caress against her lips. He couldn’t invoke a distance between them, couldn’t stop touching her. His nose brushed hers as her drew back an infinitesimal amount. Closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply, summoning courage. “You can dictate how this goes between us. But if we do this, I can’t—there’s no-one else. Just you and me.”

The subsequent pause was one of the worst of Cassian’s life. It was barely a breath. The blink of an eye. But it felt as if it was malleable and elastic, drawn out by the hands of fate as everything suspended in time.

He didn’t want to open his eyes, but in the end he managed it. Caught Nesta’s eyelashes flutter downwards, casting shadows on her skin. Her fists tightened in the fabric of his tunic, anchoring him to the moment.

She swallowed. Shook her head. Agreed with a conviction he had not been expecting, “No-one else.”

The relief that swooped through Cassian was so fierce it was painful. But he still didn’t dare to believe it.

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger so Nesta could not look away. So he could look into the deep waters of her irises and know she was telling him the truth.

But her gaze was steady and unwavering, as he demanded, “Say it again.”

His voice cracked but Nesta didn’t appear to notice. Her grip on him tightened. “No-one else,” she repeated on an outward breath.

A low, ravaged moan sounded from Cassian’s throat. “Diyosa,” he murmured, slipping into Illyrian. Goddess.

“Bruha,” Nesta corrected. She fumbled over the pronunciation but Cassian felt as if he had been an ember that had burst into flame. Witch.

He let out a rough bark of laughter. Then he swore in a long, drawn out moan. “No Illyrian,” he ordered roughly. Pressed his mouth firmly against hers, the kiss searing. “Otherwise this will be over far too quickly.” Another kiss. “And I want to take my time.”

The smile Nesta painted against Cassian’s lips was feline. “You’ve made a lot of promises, General. I hope you don’t disappoint.”

Cassian snarled. Spun her body until her back was cradled against his chest. “I have, haven’t I?” he mused lightly, even though the hammering of his heart must have beat a betraying rhythm against her shoulder blade.

In the mirror, Nesta’s expression grew less poised and controlled. Delight mixed with anticipation clung to her features at this game they played; this tussle for control. She did not try to wrangle free from his hold or shift uncomfortably in his arms at having her back enclosed against his.

It thrilled him—that trust. Enough so that when he met her eyes in the mirror, Cassian found that his irises had been swallowed by his pupils until they were only a ring of chocolate gold.

Slowly, Cassian brushed Nesta’s hair over to one shoulder with his left hand. Traced his fingers down the arc of her neck to her collarbone. Continued a path down the centre of her chest, to the pyrite which glittered between her breasts.

When his fingers met the first button of his shirt, Cassian toyed with it. Purposefully grazed his nose against the shell of her ear. “Shall I start here?” he murmured. “Undress you in front of the mirror whilst you watch?”

Nesta suppressed a shudder, but Cassian caught it. Could swear he felt her blood boiling beneath her skin as he slipped the button free of its hole. Then another. And another. Until there were no more buttons and the material hung free.

Leaning back into his body, Nesta rested her head against his chest. Curved her back slightly so her chest thrust upwards, silently instructing him where she wanted his hands.

And Cassian couldn’t deny her. He turned his palm so it was face up and curled into a loose fist. Brushed his knuckles down her sternum all the way to her bared naval, before bringing it back up. His fingers ran up the side of the material free of buttons, until he was at her collarbone—her shoulder—leaving a litter of goosebumps in his wake.

This time, Cassian snickered when she shivered. Dropped a slow and deliberate kiss to her bare shoulder as he slowly, slowly inched the material down, down, down over her arm. Repeated the motion on the other, until the shirt pooled onto the floor, exposing her bare body to the mirror: endless creamy skin, divine curves, the luscious full weight of her bare breasts, and… lower.

Nesta’s eyes, which had been tracking the fabric as it fell away, snapped to his as a feral growl ripped from him. And she moaned at the expression on his face. Grabbed at his hands, pulling them to her body.

“Touch me,” Nesta hissed, but it came out strangled. Almost pleading. Another crack in her armour as it broke and fell away.

The sight was enough to threaten Cassian to his knees. He guided her body backwards, his hands splaying firmly across her stomach despite her whine, until his legs hit the edge of the mattress

Neither of them broke eye contact in the mirror. Not when Cassian coaxed Nesta down to sit on the bed with him. Not when he pulled her between his legs, her back firmly against his chest. Not when he bowed his head to kiss the slope between her neck and shoulder.

When Cassian finally brushed a thumb over her nipple, Nesta back bowed so fiercely Cassian was thankful he had an arm strapped across her stomach.

The small noise she loosed fuelled his fire and Cassian held on to her. Stroked over that peaked nipple again as Nesta careened into his touch. Followed it with a firmer roll with his thumb and forefinger. Used the fingertips of his other hand to draw slow, tantalising circles across the silken skin of her lower stomach, before he moved southwards…

The air around them hushed when Cassian’s fingers stilled. Anticipation built and only when it vibrated with tension did Cassian slide his hands to cradle Nesta’s hips.

A snarl of frustration, but Cassian paid the sound no heed. Only grazed his thumbs over Nesta’s hipbones. Watched her expression in the mirror—the way her face contorted as she squirmed into his touch as if she was a puppet on strings. Ground back onto him, pressing into that building ache that was bordering on painful.

Fuck, Nesta.

Cassian wasn’t sure if he had spoken out loud or in his head, all he knew was the blessed, fleeting relief he felt as he bucked into the small of Nesta’s back on instinct. He was rock hard and thirsting to be touched, but the thickening scent of Nesta’s arousal pulled his focus.

A groan rumbled from Cassian’s throat as Nesta’s hand darted between her legs. He caught her wrist just in the nick of time. Kissed the heart of her palm. Rumbled into her ear, “Not yet, sweetheart.”

His voice was coarse enough that Nesta shivered, the goosebumps travelling down her skin like a cresting wave. She didn’t struggle against him, nor did she move to disobey him as he dropped her wrist. Instead, she waited, trembling and shaking at every pass of his thumbs over her skin.

Cassian buried his nose behind the shell of her ear. Breathed Nesta in, steadying the drum of his pulse.

Not once did he take his eyes off of hers in the mirror, especially as he murmured, “Shall we find out if you’re wet for me?”

Nesta squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if the movement would steady her. Swallowed hard. It was so unlike her to take stock, to show any signs that she was rattled, that Cassian softened. He nuzzled at her neck, trailed a line of kisses instilled with promises. A hand flew up to tangle in Cassian’s hair, keeping him there.

“Yes.”

The word stuttered out of Nesta on several staccatos, but she forced her eyes open and met his gaze in the mirror. Watched as he pulled her tighter against him and hooked her legs over his thighs so she was spread wide. Slipped his hand across and down…

The first ghost of a touch had Nesta panting through her nose. The second had her gritting her teeth. The third had her moaning, her back bowing so sharply as he skimmed straight over the place she wanted him the most.

Her head hit the centre of his chest with a resounding thud that had his bones creaking, but she did not look away from him. Seemed to know the game they were playing without him having to express it.

When Cassian brought his fingers lower and discovered just how wet Nesta was, he had to force his wings in tight to his back to hide his surprise. Growled, “You’re soaked.”

Pleasure and embarrassment twisted in Cassian’s stomach, and Cassian wanted to tell her that it was not something to be ashamed of, that he wanted her just as much as she clearly wanted his fingers between her legs.

Her eyes glinted steel, her stare commanding. “Make me come—“ she ordered, but Cassian chose that moment to roll his finger over that spot at the apex of her thighs.

The command bottomed out of Nesta as she inhaled sharply. Satisfaction bloomed inside of Cassian; because he may have done this countless times before but barely enough with her. And nothing seemed to matter apart from him seeking out her satisfaction. Of learning about what made her body freeze with pleasure and what made her come undone. “There?” he murmured into her ear, repeating the movement, before he passed his fingers down further. Until they were at her entrance, playing gently before he drew upwards and circled.

This time, Nesta groaned. Her hips jerked sharply beneath him, tilting, guiding him to just the right place.

Picking up on the cue, Cassian increased the tempo and friction until Nesta’s hips were rolling in a punishing rhythm against the hard length of him.

And Cassian snarled in satisfaction, his fingers tightening around her hip in a plea for her to keep moving—to not stop pushing back on him—because it was blissfully good. The rapid tightening in his groin was almost painful, the cord so tight that Cassian thought it might snap. But he couldn’t stop Nesta, not when she looked so bewitching, the arousal so stark on her face as he stroked and circled and pressed.

Burning pleasure clambered to its peak and Nesta’s eyes grew so heavy they fluttered closed. Something unintelligible left her lips, her head tipping back into the heart of his chest.

When Nesta’s arms wound around his neck, her knuckles accidentally grazing the leather of his wings, Cassian part-snarled, part-roared. Swore. Held her even tighter as his wings snapped out high and mighty behind him. They wrapped around Nesta’s body before Cassian’s pleasure-fogged mind could stop them curling towards her, starved for her touch.

Fuck, he was unhinged. So desperate for relief—in the scent and feel of his mate—that his control was barely there. Enough so that he didn’t react when Nesta reached out her hand—

Sense knocked Cassian for six only when Nesta’s fingers were millimetres from touching the membrane. He drew back his wings so fast the air around them stormed, but he swooped in before surprise could register on Nesta’s face. Dipped his chin and coaxed her head even further back so he could claim her mouth.

The taste of her lips was as vital as breathing, the scrape of her nails on his scalp grounding. He moaned into her mouth at the same time as she whimpered. His hand was still moving between her legs, interchanging the same three patterns over and over again, mixing things up as soon as Nesta’s moans grew too untamed: he wanted to draw out her pleasure, not sate it with a few choice strokes.

Pulling away, Cassian pressed a kiss to her forehead. Coaxed her to dip her chin until she was looking back at their reflection in the mirror: ebony and golden brown, tan and cream.

Nesta’s irises were wisps of silver, but when he traversed past that bundle of nerves so he could slip two fingers inside of her, they flickered into living flame.

That was indication enough that she liked what he was doing. Cassian had quickly learnt that Nesta became completely readable between the sheets, that mask slowly crumbling away until she broke completely.

Curving his fingers as much as he could, Cassian pressed upwards hard—again and again— revelling in the strangled sounds Nesta made. The way she writhed but tried her best to hold his gaze.

Cassian dropped a lingering kiss to the crown of Nesta’s head. Murmured into her hair, “Is that good, sweetheart?”

The only response Cassian received was a long moan which extended into a whine as he withdrew his fingers. Then a sharp cry as he swept them upwards, swirling them in a well-practiced motion that had Nesta’s lower half seizing in pleasure.

Cassian circled again. Again. Firmer. Faster. Nesta’s cries grew louder, her breathing became more laboured. A silver wreathed hand flew to his forearm—not to stop him, but to keep him there.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

The bond between them creaked and cracked as it expanded.

Nesta panted his name.

“Are you going to come for me, sweetheart?” Cassian scratched out.

In vain, Nesta attempted to burrow her head into his shoulder, but Cassian’s voice dropped out of soft and into the role of general within the fraction of a heartbeat. “Eyes on the mirror, Nesta, or I’ll stop.”

It seemed to take all of Nesta’s energy to fight her leaded eyelids and meet his dark eyes in their reflection. When she did, Cassian’s magic roared and pounded beneath his skin, as if it was trying to break free and join Nesta’s. There was a pressure and power fuelling the sensation that was separate to him. It was like the magnetic force which rules the relentless ebb and flow of the tide—that desperate crash followed by a scrabbling, thundering retreat.

That twisted rope between them grew corporeal, tugging at their ribcages as if it was clambering to remind them both of its existence. Of the cost of this exchange.

Something deepened in both of their gazes, but if Nesta had felt what Cassian had, she gave no indication. She only arched her hips back into his, grinding backwards.

Cassian loosed a rough groan that skittered across the shell of her ear. Her gaze was purposeful but hooded, as if she was in a continual battle with the pleasure weighting her eyelids.

“Good girl,” he praised as Nesta’s eyelashes fluttered from the strain of maintaining eye contact. And then his fingers were everywhere at once and Nesta’s moans fell away to short gasps that rose in volume.

Nesta tightened her fingers around his neck, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of tether as her pleasure launched high into the air. The hand that had been at her hip, steadying her, encouraging her to roll back on him moved to her breast; cupping and pinching and rolling as she stuttered pants and words that Cassian couldn’t make out.

When Cassian slid two fingers inside of her again and pressed down firmly on her clit with his palm, Nesta’s cry was wild.

“Look at me,” Cassian ordered as Nesta’s eyes flew shut. His voice was resonant—startling—even to him. It punched through the bubble that had encased them—their entwined scent—and Nesta’s eyes snapped open.

For a beat, time seemed to stand still around them. Their gaze fastened back into place and for a moment, Cassian could see a conflict of thoughts swirl in the magic of Nesta’s irises.

He froze just as anguish crashed down that bond, right into the heart of his chest.

It knocked the breath from him. Confusion rattled inside of his head but he came up empty of answers. Had he gone too far? Had he hurt her somehow?

“Sweetheart—“ he started, but stopped. Unsure of what to say because he could still smell how much she wanted this. Could feel how soaked she was. But perhaps that was what the mating bond did. Fooled reason with an overwhelming drive to pleasure and claim.

Cassian went to draw his hand away but Nesta’s hand whipped out, her fingers curling around his wrist. Desperation flooded her next words—the plea in them stark. “Don’t stop.”

As if to punctuate her point, she rolled her hips. His fingers slid over her of her own accord and she stumbled a moan. Light barrelled down the bond and Cassian’s blood spiked, thrilled as he felt the truth of her words, as she ground back into him again.

“Fuck that feels good,” Cassian grunted into her ear. His hips pushed into the small of her back, accentuating his point. It chased the delicious reprieve from the ache in his cock, even as he knew this moment wasn’t about him. As he pulled her back into the solid muscle of his chest, steadying her movements so he could pick up where he left off: so he could watch the pleasure whip away her conflicted expression until her eyes were once again blazing with the promise of flame.

Silver mist climbed from Nesta’s fingertips into the air. It crawled over the glowing ruby siphons across the backs of his hands, past the corded muscle of his forearm and the rolled up sleeves of his tunic, to his chest, his neck…

A sheen of metal shone in Cassian’s eyes, flickering across his irises so they appeared to turn a metallic gold. The lick of Nesta’s magic didn’t burn. It was a rush of heat—the tender caress of a lover’s kiss instilled into his skin over and over again, ascending Cassian to another realm of pleasure, as if he’d climbed a staircase to an entirely new place.

It felt like an extended method of foreplay Cassian had never been privy to before, lighting up every nerve ending until he was so hard he could cut stone.

Gritting his teeth through the pain-cloaked pleasure, Cassian focussed instead on Nesta’s bare skin.

The tempting fullness of her breasts. The way desire had completely rewritten her countenance. The way she whimpered and then cried out.

Cassian sped up his movements. Until his fingers were no longer teasing, but dancing over her with sure, quick movements designed to thrust her towards a crescendo.

Nesta’s magic swirled into flame, the heat of it a licking promise down Cassian’s limbs. He groaned, swore at the exquisite pain on her face as she hung at the precipice, ready to plummet into rapture.

Her climax became a tangible, living thing and Cassian wanted to see it play out for as long as he possible could. Wanted to see her break for him again and again and again.

So, he waited until she reached the summit and when she was there he slowed down his movements. Ordered through her whimpering, “Look at me Nesta.”

Metallic irises met his, and then Nesta was trembling and shaking in fits and bursts as her release ripped out of her like a taut cord cut loose. Cassian drew her orgasm out as best he could, suspending that pleasure until finally Nesta slumped against him, spineless.

She turned her head to bury it in his shoulder and Cassian let her. Stroked her hair. Pressed a kiss to her sweaty head. Murmured, “Good?”

Slowly, Nesta nodded, but for a long while, that was the only communication he received. But Cassian let her recover. Watched the way her ribcage moved as she heaved for breath. Relished the way her body was splayed out over him, her legs held wide open from where they were hooked over his thighs.

Unable to help himself, Cassian brushed over her sex. Delighted in the way Nesta shuddered rather than batted him away. Fresh desire reignited across her expression and Cassian played gently for a few minutes, revelling in the wetness that had gathered from her release.

Finally, Nesta lifted her head to meet his gaze again. “Did I burn you?”

“No,” Cassian replied hoarsely, his heart squeezing at the genuine fear in her words. He let out a rough laugh, passed his fingers lightly over the knot at the apex of her legs for the last time before he withdrew them.

Nesta moaned softly, even as her brow twisted into a small frown.

“It felt good,” Cassian elaborated. He kissed her shoulder at the same time that he pushed his hips into hers as if to demonstrate just how much he’d liked her magic. “I’m being strangled to death in these pants,” he confessed.

When Nesta cocked her head, her hair moved in a golden tangle. Then she smirked. Unravelled her limbs from him and turned.

Nesta slung her legs over his waist so she was straddling him just as Cassian’s hands caught in her hair. A booming sounded as his wings snapped out and fanned behind him, settling like falling fabric.

“We can’t have that,” Nesta remarked, her breath a whisper against his skin.

“No,” Cassian agreed roughly. “It’s your favourite part.”

Nesta snorted a laugh, but it was not derisive. “Egotistical bat,” she muttered.

A slow, smug smile was Cassian’s only reply. Because he was more focussed on her mouth. With the feel of her silken skin beneath his palms as he ran them up her legs and over her rounded ass. His touch was a promise as he tugged her into his body and ground up into her core, the seam of his trousers doing nothing to relieve the damning ache in his cock.

Together they gasped, and then, as always, they moved at the same time, their mouths slanting one another within a fraction of a second.

The heat of Nesta was liquid, the touch of her smoke—feverish and everywhere all at once. It was the same heat that had roared into existence when Cassian had pinned her against the wall earlier, yet… better somehow. Passionate and awake rather than fogged with lust. Life-giving.

A shuddered groan was pulled from Cassian’s chest as Nesta’s hands slid beneath his tunic and met his burning skin. And then the tunic was on the floor—the rest of his clothing was torn from him soon after. It all happened at such speed Cassian could barely keep up, but when Nesta reached for his bare, burning skin—the tattoos on his arms and the faint scar on his stomach—her fingers were gentle.

“Battle scar,” Cassian panted in explanation, as Nesta’s fingers lingered on the silvery tissue that wound over his lower abdomen: a permanent reminder of what had happened to him during the final battle with Hybern. “The trauma was too great for Madja to heal completely.”

“I remember,” Nesta replied shortly and she looked so fierce that Cassian reached for her. Cupped her cheek with his palm.

“Still breathing, Nes.”

Nesta nodded, but when she kissed him this time there was something fierce and desperate about it, her fingers burying deeper into the mane of his hair.

And then a hand was trailing down his skin and closing around his cock. The touch was sinful and a glimpse of the heavens. When he hissed into her mouth, Nesta gripped tighter—until pain laced the pleasure—just how he liked it.

His groan was that of rumbling thunder as she began to move her hand. It was everything Cassian needed, but it was too much, too good. He scrambled to hold on to some sense of control, because he’d never been this close to losing it from just a few touches.

Then Nesta stopped. Glanced downwards—

The realisation thumped through Cassian so loudly his heartbeat punched like a fist against his ribcage.

“Don’t you dare,” Cassian choked out.

Nesta’s eyes shot to his, but rather than looking startled she arched a challenging eyebrow.

“If you so much as try to put my cock in your mouth I’ll explode,” Cassian rasped.

Before she could protest, he was gathering her to him and had slipped a hand down between her legs.

Just the touch of his fingers had Cassian seizing back control. Nesta stilled at the sudden pleasure, as if she was trying to coax time into suspending the sensation.

“Still so wet,” Cassian purred against the tip of her ear.

Gliding his fingers over the centre of her, Cassian paused briefly at the apex of her legs, toying with her clit, before he ran them back down. When he drew his fingers back, rubbing them together and raising them to the faelight, they glittered.

Nesta’s nostrils flared as if she was an animal in heat. And Cassian knew before he spoke that his voice? would be what pushed them over the edge. But he said it anyway, his voice dropping impossibly low, “Is this all for me?”

Nesta launched at him until their mouths collided, until they were nothing but a clash of teeth and tongues, their skin so flush they may as well have been fused together.

Burying her fingers deeper into the tangled mane of his hair, Nesta tugged sharply. Met his gaze head on. Demanded, “Fuck me.”

All it took was those two words. Cassian moved, flipping them so Nesta’s back was flush against the mattress. He covered her body with his and Nesta whined at the contact, her body bending and arching towards him as if she were a plant and he was sunlight.

Cassian ran a hand up her bare thigh to her ass, coaxing her leg to bend, but Nesta was too impatient. She broke free from the weight of his body, repositioning herself until legs were wrapped tightly around his hips.

An uneven laugh choked out of him. “So stubborn,” Cassian chided darkly, but he allowed his hips to fall into the cradle of hers. Hissed as he loosed his control and thrust so his cock could glide through her centre. “Fuck,” he grunted. “Nesta, fuck.”

Nesta’s breathy whine fuelled the sparks of pleasure that crackled through him like static energy. He kissed her hard. “There’s a high probability I won’t survive this.”

The snort Nesta loosed tried to sound unaffected, but her voice shook as she accused him, “Liar.”

But he wasn’t lying. And Nesta knew it. She had to know it because his walls were now shattered around them in splintered shards.

Yet, Cassian found himself assuring her. “Not lying," he grunted as he passed over her again. Pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth—a parting goodbye as he moved to kiss the underside of her jaw, down the column of her throat. Down further, to flick his tongue and scrape his teeth over both nipples.

He moaned when she moaned; their sounds a chorus of want until he couldn’t take it anymore. Cassian’s claws clipped around the metal of the bed frame at the same time that he pushed off of the palms that were framing her face, until he was on his knees before her.

Despite the desire coursing through him, Cassian’s head was nothing but clear as he slid his hands under Nesta’s ass and lifted her effortlessly, positioning her so that the undersides of her thighs were flush against his knees.

Nesta’s hair was tousled over the pillow, her lips swollen and parted as she surveyed him. When she tried to wrap her legs back around his hips, Cassian held firm. And despite the fact that Nesta listened to nobody, she allowed him to bend her knees and press his calloused palms to the insides of her thighs in silent instruction.

They fell open and a growl rumbled in Cassian’s throat. His hand was fisting his cock, lining it up to her entrance before he knew what was happening. But then he remembered the pain from before. And even though Nesta was more than ready for him, the thought of hurting her made him feel physically sick.

When he moved away, Nesta let out a strangled noise. A hand shot out, closing around his wrist. “You said you’d fuck me.”

Cassian wanted to explain, but that meant alluding to that tie between them, that instinct that couldn’t allow him to see her hurt. Cassian knew Nesta wasn’t ready for that. Knew that if he so much as breathed a word about it that this precious moment would fall away.

And Cassian was selfish. He had to see how this played out. Had to know if Nesta could grow to accept the bond between them—deem him worthy enough to accept something that was Cauldron blessed.

So, he only drawled, “Patience is a virtue, sweetheart.”

One swift movement had Cassian gathering Nesta into his arms. This time, he allowed Nesta’s legs to wind around him. She gripped him like a vice and Cassian knew it wasn’t from fear of him dropping her. When he sat back against the headboard and guided her onto his lap, Cassian expected her to bite out a comment about doing all of the work, but Nesta only let out a pleased sound. Weaved a hand back into his ebony hair. Wrapped a tight fist around his length, twisting once at the tip, before she guided him to her entrance.

Cassian hissed a curse as she closed around the head. Murmured her name into her mouth. Gripped tightly at her hips when she didn’t stop sinking down on him, as he felt that pain mixed with the sweetest pleasure.

“Nesta.” The way he said her name was firm and commanding, but he still had to dig his fingers hard enough into her skin that he was sure it would leave temporary bruises. The thought made him falter, but then that sharp pain flared again as she resisted against him, and he knew that the bruises were a necessary evil. “Nesta,” he barked, “Go slowly.”

Something creaked and cracked between them. A stretching, growing pain reached its fingers down that bond, the sensation strong rather than constricted as it fought to make its way down their usually thin tie.

Nails dug into Cassian’s neck. A whimper sounded in his ears as Nesta fell forwards, burying her face into his neck. “Please,” she whined in frustration. “Cassian—”

She broke off as she clamped down around him and Cassian felt an ebb of pleasure cut through the pain—that promise of something more.

“Don’t make me hurt you, sweetheart,” Cassian pleaded and the rawness in his voice stopped her resisting against him. He eased a hand between them, touched her right where she wanted him. Allowed her to tug his face upwards so she could kiss him. It was infused with desperation and Cassian eased his hold on her hip. Allowed her to lower herself downwards until she had slid another inch deeper. Continued to stroke her until Nesta began to shake.

“I’m going to—,” Nesta gasped against his mouth. Her body trembled and Cassian’s blood roared at bringing her to the edge again so soon, despite the pain. “Cassian—”

Abruptly, Cassian moved his hand away.

Nesta’s snarl whipped around the room, but Cassian smoothed the sound away by fusing his mouth on hers. She stopped shaking but the sharp bite of Nesta’s glare pierced its teeth through his flesh in a flash of silver.

“It will be better if you wait,” Cassian gritted out in explanation when they parted. Nesta’s breath gusted against his skin. “And I don’t think I can hold on if you come so soon. You feel so good, Nesta. So tight.”

As if on cue, Nesta contracted around him and Cassian ground his teeth together so hard that the muscle in his jaw worked. But he let Nesta slide down on him another inch. Then another. And another. Until their hips were finally flush with one another and that pain had bled away until it was nothing.

The moaned words that fell from Nesta were indistinguishable, but he felt her tremor. Felt that surge inside of him as Nesta repeated herself with a whine that indicated she was toppling over the ledge of control, like a glass teetering before it fell.

And then she was moving and Cassian let her. He was unable to think or breathe. Could only focus on the feel of her.

“Fuck,” Cassian groaned. His head thunked back hard against the headboard as she ground her hips into his, testing the feel of him. “This is better than I’d dreamed.”

No soft snicker, only an untamed whine. Then teeth scraping a sinful path down his neck to his pulse.

Cassian’s hips kicked up hard as her teeth nipped.

“Sorry,” he gasped, because even though Nesta had told him not to hold back, he was still concerned about hurting her. But Nesta’s fingernails bit into his skin and her body moulded to him—a delicious second skin—as she inhaled sharply. “Again,” she demanded with a fierceness that did not allow disobedience. “Do that again—”

It didn’t take a second command for Cassian to thrust up hard. And true to her word, Nesta took him all. Did not change her mind and ask him to hold back. Instead, Cassian knew that this was exactly what she wanted—no, needed. She needed this punishing rhythm just as much as he did.

And it felt… incredible. Beyond anything Cassian had ever felt before. The blood roaring in his ears intermingled with Nesta’s cries and the slap of his hips meeting hers, was the only thing he could hear, his senses narrowed down to the sensation of her wrapped around him, so tight …

It was too good. It threatened to break him, to take everything that he was and reform it entirely, as if he was going to shatter and be pieced back together as someone else entirely. The air around them became taut with pressure, tanning leather stretched too tight over a rack, as if their joining controlled one of the essential elements.

“Cassian.” That one word threatened to break him. Not bat or it or you, only his name falling from her lips as if it was their secret. “More.”

Exhaling a curse, Cassian planted his feet firmly on the mattress and thrust up with as much vigour as he could muster. The movement had them slipping from their upright position and Cassian’s claws absent-mindedly closed around the metal bed frame, strapping them in for the ride as his body coiled and tensed as he slammed into her over and over.

Nesta cried out. Grabbed fistfuls of his hair as they moved together as if they had been made for this moment, their wild gasps melded together until they were one.

Only when release teetered too close to the edge did Cassian drop the rhythm. Cupped the breasts he had dreamed of more times than he could count. The breasts he’d had the privilege of seeing bare and glorious only twice before.

Capturing a nipple between his teeth, Cassian scraped his teeth hard enough that Nesta stopped rocking and angled her hips until he was pressing impossibly deep inside her. She whimpered. Clenched and unclenched. Throbbed in a way that told him she was as close as he was—that if he wasn’t so close himself, he could drive her over the edge with a few well-timed thrusts.

The understanding had him letting out a jagged groan. “Are you close, sweetheart?”

A whine in response, but Cassian didn’t let it go. He raked back the hair from her sweaty forehead. Pressed his lips to her swollen ones in a lingering kiss. Watched the frown that knitted her brow as she was overtaken by the feel of them.

“What do you need, Nesta. Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”

Nesta wound her hands around his head, buried her face into his neck. Began swaying and circling her hips in a rhythm that was dictated purely by the chase of pleasure. “Just… this,” she panted. “I just need this.”

Then it was only the licking fire of her breath against his skin. The magic that curled around them like a heated blanket and the building anticipation of both of their releases, which pulled at him like a strange sort of magnetism, begging him to fall with her in unison.

“Cassian—” Nesta began in warning, but he had already felt her begin to quake, as if the ground was moving beneath their feet—the mountains trembling.

That pull became a driving force—a cresting wave of pleasure so profound that Cassian felt that twist inside of him—that signal that he was about to join her.

He groaned, jerking his head back so it collided with wood, the pain grounding him enough that he could say, “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Nesta broke, as if she’d been waiting for him to ask it of her. Her cry was muffled and Cassian wanted to tear her mouth from his neck—to hear her break for him—but then she was sinking her teeth into his skin right over his pulse.

Roaring, Cassian kicked his hips up hard on instinct as she marked him, but the shock distracted him. Clouded the desperate clamber of his release so he could hold himself back.

Cassian held tightly onto Nesta as she slumped against him. When she lifted her teeth from him, Nesta whined like an animal. Dragged her tongue over the dent she’d made in his neck—once, twice, three times.

He shuddered. Couldn’t help it. Turned his face into her hair. Breathed her in. The gesture was tender, like an animal tending to the wound of a significant other—its mate.

And wrapped in this moment, Cassian could almost believe that this was something more than sex for Nesta as her forehead came to rest on his collarbone. As she kissed the hollow of his throat. Then the knot. His lips.

“Good?” Cassian asked softly. He lifted a hand to her face, ran a calloused thumb over her cheekbone.

Nesta made a rare, content sound that vibrated through him like a balm. She leant into his hand, her eyelashes swooping down.

When she finally pulled back to survey him, her eyes were still dark. She shifted her hips. Moaned quietly. Rasped, “You’re still hard.”

It was a miracle Cassian hadn’t followed. If it hadn’t been for her teeth in his neck, Cassian would have been wrestling with the embarrassment of finishing too soon.

“I was too preoccupied with your teeth in my neck.”

A flush crept its way up Nesta’s face, like vines reaching their wicked encroaching fingers up a wall. But she raised her chin. “You wanted me to do it.”

It was true, he had wanted her to. And he wanted to do the same to her—to mark her as his so everyone would know that she was off limits for the brief hours before her body healed.

“And what about you?”

The patter of Nesta’s heart broke into a sprint. It was the only thing that betrayed her feelings, her expression devoid of any reaction. “What do you mean?”

Cassian leant forward until their noses brushed. Lifted his eyebrows. “Do you want me to bite you, Nesta?”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. If she had wings, they’d have flung wide by now. Would have collided with furniture and cut through air.

That was answer enough.

In one movement, Cassian lifted himself up and over, until Nesta was on her back and he was pressing her body into the mattress. Breath gushed out of her lungs but it was not from fear, not as Nesta turned herself out bare and tilted her chin for him—for once not in defiance but as an act of vulnerability—of complete and utter trust.

Every instinct in Cassian clambered to the surface, but he closed a fist around it until its life fluttered against the cage of his palms and fingers: his to control, rather than the other way around.

Slowly, Cassian lowered his nose to the exposed skin and breathed her in: her scent and the life that pummelled beneath her skin, the roaring of her blood as it crashed through her veins. It took everything in him not to move inside of her, to thrust up hard and feel the way her breasts would move against his chest.

“I could do it right here,” Cassian murmured, his mouth ghosting over the pale column of her neck until he came across that pulse. He brushed a tongue across it.

The movement was a mirror of what he’d done before in the human realm and Nesta knew it. But this time she did not jerk back from him demanding what he’d done. Instead, her body drew up beneath him, exposing more of her neck, begging for more.

Cassian groaned, raking his teeth over that swell at the same time that he pushed in deep. Nesta’s groan was guttural and everything. His blood turned molten, so hot that he expected his skin to melt away until he was nothing but bones.

“Please,” Nesta panted, her fingers tightening around his back.

Another flick of his tongue over her pulse. “Do you want me to bite you or fuck you?”

“Both.”

That was enough to loosen the fist on Cassian’s control. He sat back on his knees, prying her hands from his neck, coaxing her fingers until they were above her head and clasped around the railings of the headboard. Nesta’s breasts rose with the movement, her peaked nipples so tempting he bent to take one into his mouth. Then the other. Suckled until she mewled and her nipples were no longer rosy but red from his attention.

Cassian lifted his head and surveyed Nesta. Warned her, “Hold on tight.”

And then there was no thinking, no worrying or desperation to hold back. It all came as easy as breathing, their tempo,the snap of his hips and the shift of the mattress as her body shouldered the impact. At some point, Cassian’s body fell over hers, needing to feel every inch of her against him. His wild, punishing rhythm dropped into a rough rocking that was intimate at the same time it was claiming.

Nesta didn’t seem to mind—let out a pleased moan of consent, her legs clamping tighter around his hips until they were flush with hers. When he next moved she whined, and Cassian felt that change inside of her—somehow—that twisting fist of pleasure that glimmered down the bond, pushing against the walls of that thread, pushing it wider and wider, like a heart expanding.

Silver-wreathed fingers tugged his head down until Nesta could claim his mouth, fusing them together so they were complete. Cassian shuddered as her fire cascaded from her fingertips and down his body. His magic, attracted to hers, began to suck out of his pores, but it didn’t leech him of power. Instead, it was like his magic was searching for its mate, desperate to be reunited.

Then that sensation again, as if Cassian had ducked beneath something and had come up for air somewhere else.

Ruby greeted silver like a long-lost lover, blending until their magic was a metallic sheen of scarlet—a fog that misted their bodies, rubbing tantalisingly against their skin as they rocked and moaned their way to release.

“Don’t stop,” Nesta begged desperately through stuttered breaths, and Cassian wondered how many times she’d reached this pinnacle with other males only for it to be taken from her.

Cassian’s hand found its way to her face, his thumb stroking over her cheek as that coiled release twisted across her devastatingly beautiful face. “Can’t,” he panted honestly, his other hand searching for hers across the mattress until he was clasping it—holding on for dear life. “I’m so close, sweetheart. You have no idea how good you feel.”

“Come with me then,” Nesta pleaded. Her eyelashes had fluttered downwards as she took in a sharp breath of pleasure, but now they opened. Stared deep into his soul. “Come with me—”

Then her body turned both loose and taut, clamping yet completely molten as her release ripped out of her.

“Fuck,” Cassian swore. Invisible hands clasped around his ass, tugging him deeper—deeper. Everything in him tightened as Nesta crashed around him, and that siren called to him, singing her name, over and over as pleasure clawed at him, desperate to whip out of him.

Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

Cassian launched at her neck, his teeth sinking deep enough to claim as Nesta cried out, her body trembling as he continued to thrust into her, wringing out her release at the same time he desperately clambered towards his own.

He managed to pull out just in time, his teeth still deep in her neck, his release spilling hot onto her stomach in bursts of pleasure.

And even though Cassian had vowed to bite her and Nesta had already marked him, he found himself apologising at the red, angry dents in her skin. How was it that he couldn’t bare to hurt her but biting her neck was a completely different story?

“Sorry,” Cassian rasped. His mouth was as dry as a desert as he gingerly touched his fingers to the marks, but Nesta’s fingers clasped around his, halting him. Then she raised her other hand and brushed her knuckles over the identical marking on his. Reminding him that she’d done the same—had been the first to do it.

“I liked it,” Nesta admitted brazenly, but she didn’t stop him from dragging his tongue over the marks. Shivered instead. Held his head to her.

“That was intense,” Cassian rasped eventually against her ear, after the quiet had settled over them like a blanket. He nuzzled at her neck again, unable to help it—just one more precious moment like this until he had to pull away.

When Cassian pulled back to meet Nesta’s eyes, he found that the blue bled back into her irises. “It was always going to be intense,” she replied frankly.

Then Nesta looked down at her body, as if she’d only just remembered how he’d marked her in a different way. “You didn’t have to do that—pull out. I can take a tonic.”

Cassian hadn’t wanted to pull out at all—and neither had that tie which bound them together—but that wasn’t the point. “I’d rather be cautious,” he explained—a little too shortly, because Nesta bristled.

“Neither of us have had a tonic in a while,” Cassian elaborated when Nesta’s expression hardened.

He tried not to think about how his body had been desperate to spill inside of her. For him to press as deep as he possibly could until he was spent.

Climbing off of the bed, Cassian disappeared down the hallway and into the bathroom. When he returned, he was holding a wet towel.

“A while?” Nesta queried, picking up their conversation, as he began to clean her up.

Cassian cocked an eyebrow, but he didn’t dare meet her eyes lest she read him. His shoulders turned rigid at the thought. “Have you been sneaking people in and out of the bungalow that I’m not aware of?” he asked.

They both knew that Cassian would tear any male she brought back to the bungalow to pieces, but neither of them voiced it.

“You go back to Velaris,” Nesta accused. “You visit the other camps.”

For a moment, Cassian stared at her. Did she believe that he’d been fucking other fae? She had taunted him in Velaris the other day, but Cassian had thought that it was just their extended, agonising tussle of foreplay.

Perhaps you should go in search of some female company tonight.

Cassian managed to huff a breath, but it wasn’t one of amusement. He knew that his expression was steely as he said, “I told you that I don’t sleep with Illyrians. And I haven’t been fucking around in Velaris.”

From the way Nesta’s expression darkened, Cassian wasn't sure she believed him.

She opened her mouth to throw back a retort, but Cassian wanted the discussion to end. If she knew he’d barely touched another female since he’d met her, she’d run the other way. It was too intense a confession for someone who didn’t know what they wanted.

“It was self-inflicted,” Cassian supplied, his tone flinty enough to warn her that he wasn’t willing to discuss the subject any further.

Climbing off of the bed to further his point, Cassian extended a hand towards her. Banished any of the rigidity to his posture. “Come stand in the tub with me.”

There was a sinful promise behind the order. Already Cassian could envisage how he’d press Nesta against the tiles, his lips trailing open mouthed kisses as he kneeled before her—

Nesta must have thought similarly, because the pleasure that sparked in his stomach was not his own. But still she studied him, her head cocked as if she was trying to figure him out. Her hair was a muss of golden brown, her skin glistening with sweat that Cassian wanted to lick off.

Nesta parted her lips, taking stock, but Cassian didn’t allow her to speak. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he vowed. Meant it. Because already he was turning hard again, that desire to have her roaring.

He’d known this would happen. Knew that finally being inside of her wouldn’t sate him but stoke the embers into flames. But Cassian didn’t hide it—utterly unashamed of this need for her. From the way Nesta’s nostrils billowed, he knew she'd marked the change in his scent.

Nesta’s eyes flicked to his cock and the she-devil smirked, her lips curving in a way that had Cassian thinking about how they might wrap around him—how her tongue might feel, how warm she’d be…

In one supple movement, Nesta stood. Took his hand, her slim fingers threading around his large ones. Raised her chin and levelled him with a smoky blue gaze that promised wicked, wonderful things. “Then lead the way, general.”

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#embersandlightfic #duskandstarlightwrites #nessian fic #nessianfanfic #nessian smut #acosf #acosf fanfic #acotar #acotar fanfic #sjmaas #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #morrigan #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #feyre #elain archeron #rhysand

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keijislove · 4 years ago

Text

Dance the Night Away: Peter Parker X Reader

A/N: This ain’t following any particular timeline – let’s just say... idk, after Far from Home, maybe?

WARNING: use of the ‘P’ word (Flash being Flash)

Peter walked down the hallway amidst the chatter, trying to reach his locker as the crowd grew thicker and thicker, making it impossible for him to even see properly. Which was until a hand seized his wrist and pulled him through, letting go of him as he smashed into the storage compartment with force enough to make his brains rattle.

“Oops, sorry,” you said with a sheepish smile.

Peter had turned to thank whoever it was, but, catching sight of you, he groaned. Not that he didn’t like you – you and Peter had been best friends since you were eight years old. Recently, however, a banner had been put up by the senior girls announcing that prom would be taking place the following Saturday. And with only about five days left, you had taken to pestering Peter into going, hoping that if you’d fling the question unexpectedly, Peter would get scared into answering. You had, however, no luck so far.

“Y/N, I know what you’re going to say,” Peter warningly began, “And I don’t wanna hear it.”

“But I wanna say it,” you said, “And that I shall. Peter, come on! It’s a crucial life experience! I mean, you’re studying all the time these days, and I get it, you have a clear view of your future, and I’m happy for you. But pleeeaaaaaaase, just do it for me? It’s one night, Peter, come on! One night where you have to let go and just have fun! After that, we can go back to making circuit boards together like we used to, but just this once? C’mon, don’t tell me you’re turning me down.”

As you took a deep breath after this whole rant and Peter took one look at your sincere smile, he sighed.

“... Fine,” he mumbled.

Your eyes grew wide. Surely you’d misheard?

“What?” you asked, “Louder, please?”

“Fine!” Peter bellowed loudly so that a dozen heads turned in your direction and people began snickering.

Not caring in the least, you flashed a wide smile before engulfing Peter into a huge hug, speaking, “Thank you so much! It’ll be the best experience of your life, Peter!”

“Yes, that means better than your spiderman stuff,” you whispered in an undertone as Peter said a disbelieving, “Come on!”

Needless to say, you had finally convinced Peter to go to prom. Now came the hard part. Truth was, you had liked Peter since you were both, what, fourteen? Convincing Peter to go to prom was a task for the strong, but asking him to be your date? No way would he feel the same. Peter had never ever hinted, that your relationship could be more. In fact, he felt rather frantic to prove it couldn’t be more – something that convinced you that you did not belong together and that, someday, you would have to get over this silly little crush. Still, seeing Peter go to prom with any girl who made him happy was enough for you.

“Right, now that we’re going,” you said the following morning, when he’d found you standing next to his locker, waiting for him to arrive.

Peter sighed, “Mm hmm?”

“We need dates,” you ignored his disinterest.

“Do you have one?” asked Peter.

“It.... it’s complicated,” you muttered.

Peter crossed his arms, “Listening.”

You shot him a glare before sighing and telling him, “There’s... there’s this boy I like. I was really hoping he would ask me to homecoming back then, and I turned down anybody who asked me just to chase that blind belief. Guess what? He didn’t ask me. And I know he won’t now, but I don’t know... something inside me still hopes he would.”

“So, you’re scared to say yes to anyone in case he asked you but scared to say no to everyone in case he doesn’t ask you?” Peter clarified, causing you to laugh.

“Sounds about right.” you muttered, “But hey, enough about me, what about you? We need a date for you. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Not really,” Peter shrugged.

“Okay....” you said slowly, “Well, I’ll just list off people you would be happy with as they come to my mind... maybe you can ask one of them.”

“Fire away.”

“Okay... well, there’s Emma Jones from my biology class,” you began, “And she’s really nice.”

“Not my type.”

“Oh,” you frowned, “Okay... Alyssa from P.E?”

“The one who said spiderman sucks? No thanks.”

“Zoe from English?”

“Nope.”

“Ava from chemistry lab?”

“Meh.”

“... MJ?” you asked in defeat as Peter incredulously looked at you (A/N: sorry MJ, I love you <3).

“Okay, fine,” you snapped, “I’m done helping. Let me know if you find someone?”

Peter gave another nod as the two of you made your way to class.

------

You were panicking. Two days were all that were left, and so far, you had turned down countless boys including Flash Gordon who had swore and made rude hand gestures at you as a way to handle rejection. You didn’t know what was wrong – why was this impossible hope of Peter asking you still clouding your possibilities of a relationship?

Peter knew nothing of this – yet he annoyed you. If he was too blind to notice that you were madly in love with him, why did the very sight of his face make your brain go empty?

Now with one day left and nobody to ask you, you slumped moodily throughout the day, not talking and sitting silently at lunchtime, stabbing your potatoes pretending that it was your feelings for Peter.

“Okay you’re freaking me out now,” Peter said as the two of you were walking home and you still hadn’t opened your mouth.

“No date – again. God, this is just like homecoming,” you groaned.

Peter looked surprised.

“I thought a lot of guys asked you?”

“They did!” you moaned, “It’s just – that guy, I don’t know why he has this effect on me. It’s like – we weren’t meant to be together or maybe I wasn’t meant to go out with anyone ever.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” said Peter with something new in his expression. Behind the terribly unconvincing ‘concerned best friend’ mask, you saw a flicker of something... smugness? No, you were dreaming. You hadn’t eaten all day – this was probably a side-effect.

“You know what, I’m gonna grab a sandwich at Delmar’s,” you muttered, “I haven’t eaten since morning. Do you want to come?”

“Sorry, I promised May I’d come home,” he sheepishly said, “She wanted me to go get an outfit with her.”

“Oh,” you snickered, “Good luck with that. See you tomorrow!”

“See you.”

And with a heavy heart, you walked away from your only chance of having the person you cared about most as your date to prom.

--------

“Oh god, what was I thinking?” you muttered, staring the reflection of you in a(n) F/C dress with your hair styled <inert preferred style here>.

“This is stupid!” you said to no one in particular, before taking a deep breath and walking to the apartment across from yours and knocking on the door.

The door opened to reveal Peter.

“Oh, good you’re here, this will take just a second, May wants to –” he stopped abruptly, staring at you with eyes round as saucers.

“Um,” you began, he still kept staring.

“Earth to Peter, you still in there?” you snapped your fingers in front of his face as he blinked and turned a delicate shade of red.

“You – you look nice,” he managed to choke out.

“Thanks...?” you said, walking inside and taking a seat on the couch.

“Okay, um, M-may will take us there in her c-car, she’ll be h-here any moment, let’s just w-wait.”

“Pete, you having a stroke or something?” you asked in concern.

“No, I’m fine.” (A/N: he’s not 😉)

As if she had sensed Peter’s need to be rescued, Aunt May came walking into the room. She stopped at the sight of her nephew staring slightly at you, who was examining a coffee mug on the table. Smiling to herself, she cleared her throat.

Both of you jumped in surprise.

“We’re ready to go,” May stated, as the two of you got to your feet, following her to the car.

----------

“This was a mistake, wasn’t it?” you asked, looking at the doors of your school gym which were closed ominously.

“Why?” asked Peter in surprise, “I thought you wanted to go?”

“I do,” you admitted, “But – we don’t have dates, it’ll look so... lame.”

Peter scoffed, “Y/N, do you really need the dimwits that attend this school to justify how many cool points you have?”

“Not exactly,” you said in surprise, feeling slightly better.

“Yeah, come on, let’s just do it. Together, okay?” asked Peter as you nodded.

You both took nervous, deep breaths before pushing the doors open to reveal the commotion inside.

--------

You two were walking across the gym, interestedly examining the decorations ang pulling faces at the couples which were making out, till you bumped into something hard.

“OOF!” you groaned, falling to the floor.

“You okay?” Peter asked hurriedly, pulling you to your feet. As you both turned to look who it was, you were surprised to see Flash standing there with his mouth hanging open.

“No way,” he said, gaping, “HEY EVERYONE, LOOK! IT’S DATELESS L/N AND PENIS PARKER!”

You groaned as a million heads turned your way and slowly, the laughter broke out, jeers of the obscene names Flash had called you now echoing off the walls.

“Haha, real funny, Flash,” Peter said sarcastically, but once he saw your near-tears expression, he seized your wrist and pulled you out of the gym into the open.

“Come on,” he pacifyingly said, “Don’t cry over him, Y/N! He’s not worth it.”

“This is homecoming all over again,” you groaned, struggling to contain your tears, “School dances were never meant for me. Let’s just – let’s just go home and finish making that model spaceship we were working on.”

“Sounds like a worthwhile night to me,” Peter shrugged, tossing a brave smile your way, “You don’t need prom to be happy, you know. Let’s go.”

And so the two of you walked home, talking amongst yourselves, being the best friends you’d been since eight.

Best friends.

The sound of that word made your blood boil hot. How naïve were you? This was absolutely perfect – a million guys on the planet and you chose to fall for one who would never see you the same way.

As your apartment building came closer, Peter cleared his throat and spoke, “Wait in the living room with May for ten minutes. I have a surprise for you.”

“Seriously?” you asked, taken aback.

“Yeah, why not?”

“What is it?” you asked curiously.

Peter cocked an eyebrow.

“Kinda missing the point of a surprise if I told you what it was.”

“Makes sense,” you agreed, “Okay, but make it quick. I’m dying of curiosity.”

“You’ll live for another ten minutes,” Peter assured you.

Your curiosity was now bubbling to the surface like boiling water threatening to spill. You thought of what Peter could possibly have to surprise you, and you stopped to sit on a couch in the living room next to Peter’s aunt.

After exhausting every possibility (each as unlikely as the next), Peter finally dragged you ti the door of his room.

“... I’ve seen your room before, you know,” you laughed slightly.

“That’s not the surprise,” Peter playfully rolled his eyes, “Okay, close your eyes.”

“Jesus, Peter,” you snorted as his hands placed themselves over your eyes, “You are such a drama queen.”

“Open them... now!”

And you opened your eyes to see that the usual clutter surrounding Peter’s room had been cleared away, leaving some space for god-knows-what in the middle of it.

“Wow, you finally cleaned your room!” you exclaimed, “That is a surprise.”

“That’s still not the surprise!” Peter whined, “C’mere.”

He grabbed your hand and pulled you close as your brain clouded with confusion. What the heck was going on?

Peter threw his phone aside as a light waltz began playing through the air. Peter placed one hand on your waist and the other one to grab yours as your confusion cleared away.

“You said you wanted to go to prom,” Peter stated as you two swayed on the spot, moving slightly to the music, “You didn’t say where. Now we’re away from judgy eyes, we can be weird.”

“Seriously, Peter?” you giggled at his dorkiness, “I never knew you were so cute.”

The words had slipped from your mouth before you had time to think them through. You were praying he didn’t hear you, but a hitch in his breath made your heart drop.

“You – you think I’m cute?” Peter asked, blushing furiously.

“Well,” you sighed, there was no backing out of this, “... Yeah, I do.”

You looked down, refusing to meet his eyes.

“And the guy you wanted to get asked by...?” Peter didn’t need to finish his question; he knew you understood.

“Yes,” you whispered, tears brimming at the corner of your eyes once more.

You sucked in a deep breath and looked up, “Look, Peter, I know you don’t feel the same and it’s honestly okay –”

“Shut up,” Peter mumbled, his lips brushing over yours. Your lips brushed together a few times as the both of you melted into the addicting sensation, not aware of the surroundings, not caring in the least. To Peter, all that mattered in that moment, was you.

You two pulled apart after a while, both blushing like crazy with no idea what to do next. It was you who spoke first, shyly.

“I – I think it’s a good thing we’re alone right now. That would be an embarrassing yearbook photo.”

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x yn #spiderman x you #spiderman x yn #fluff #angst #prom #dance #cute #marvel #marvel imagine #mcu imagine

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Text

Same River Twice (aka Time Travel Nie Bros) - part 4 - see ao3 or tumblr part 1, part 2, part 3

“You know what,” Nie Mingjue said, several shichen into the most awkward conversation he’d ever been forced to overhear in his life, “I think Wei Wuxian needs more friends.”

His father stopped contemplating the window with an expression that suggested he was considering throwing himself out of it and looked at him. “So you’ve mentioned before.”

“Yes, I know,” Nie Mingjue said, because he had in fact brought it up after Nie Huaisang’s no doubt unintentionally apt suggestion. “But on second thought, he needs them urgently. As does Huaisang. You don’t want them growing up barbaric and unsocialized, do you?”

His father mouthed the words ‘barbaric and unsocialized’ to himself, looking delighted. “By which you mean that you’d like to take them to visit the Lan sect, I assume?” he asked, not bothering to hide his amusement. “To learn good habits from them there?”

“To avoid learning bad habits here,” Nie Mingjue said. “Alternatively, you could always kick all of them out so that all of us can stop getting the loud and dramatic rendition of all the different types of bad decisions adults can make, courtesy of our friends in the Jiang sect and our new guest disciples.”

“…take Zonghui with you,” his father said. “Have a nice trip. Enjoy the quiet.”

There was a better than decent chance that he was being sarcastic, but Nie Mingjue wasn’t going to wait around long enough to find out – he saluted and turned to run away at once.

“Don’t get into too much trouble!” his father shouted after him.

That was ridiculous. What sort of trouble could Nie Mingjue get into in Gusu, of all places?

“Nie-gongzi, has anyone ever told you that you have really weird taste in rewards?” Nie Zonghui said, looking long-suffering as always.

Wei Wuxian, who was riding on his shoulders, craned his head down to look at him. “Rewards? What is Nie-da-ge getting rewarded for?”

“He performed especially well on his first ever night hunt,” Nie Zonghui told him, while Nie Mingjue flushed red and Nie Huaisang, who was riding on his shoulders, giggled. “His father wanted to reward him, and determined to do so by granting the first request he made.”

“He didn’t tell me he was planning on doing that,” Nie Mingjue hissed. If he had, he might’ve asked to visit Yunping City to collect Meng Yao – finding a reason to go there was much harder to achieve than arranging a simple visit to the Lan sect, which would’ve happened sooner or later anyway.

His thoughts hadn’t been focused on reward at all. He’d only really, truly desperately wanted to get away from any further discussion of Sect Leader Jiang’s sex life.

(Cangse Sanren was blunt and straightforward in her speech, something Nie Mingjue greatly appreciated right up until she was shouting things about size and shape and performance and also her husband…it was absolutely mortifying, even just as a spectator, except possibly Jiang Fengmian was into things like that because he just kept on arguing. In his past-future life, Nie Mingjue had had to sit across the table from Jiang Fengmian for years, and might yet have to do so again if he was not successful in adverting his father’s death, which was something he wouldn’t be able to if he kept hearing things like this! He didn’t want to know things like this!)

No, Nie Mingjue hadn’t thought about rewards at all – had already put away all thoughts of that particular night-hunt in favor of showing of his improvement with Baxia, who practically purred in his hands when he wielded her, so that he could win his independence sooner rather than later.

Even picking Gusu as their destination had been primarily motivated by seizing on the last place anyone had mentioned to him as a plausible destination that could be sold to his father.

Nie Huaisang had asked him, all big and wide-eyed and adorable, why they were going to somewhere as far away from the Unclean Realm as the Cloud Recesses, and Nie Mingjue had blamed Nie Huaisang’s suggestion of introducing Wei Wuxian to the Lan sect.

Nie Huaisang had also asked why they were going now and Nie Mingjue had explained in a rush of tangled words that sometimes grown-ups liked to talk about private things very loudly and maybe it would be better to leave them to it.

Nie Huaisang had found that dreadfully funny for some reason, giggling until both he and Wei Wuxian were rolling around on the ground laughing their heads off at the idea of going to Gusu –

Nie Mingjue didn’t care. As long as they went, and with them his excuse to go as well!

(Besides, it would be nice to see Lan Xichen.)

“Of course he didn’t tell you about it, Nie-gongzi,” Nie Zonghui said patiently. “It was meant to be a surprise. Wouldn’t have been much of a surprise if you knew about it, would it?”

Nie Mingjue sighed. Nie Zonghui was a half-generation above him – older than him by over a decade, entitling him (if only technically) to be called uncle rather than cousin, but young enough that he sometimes felt more like a peer. Certainly once Nie Mingjue himself had become sect leader, having someone like him to help figure out how to communicate with the elders had been priceless.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want to punch the man in the face on a regular basis.

Stupid sense of humor.

“Wouldn’t da-ge be happier if he could pick what he got?” Nie Huaisang asked. “What if he’d asked for something stupid, like a map?”

Nie Mingjue reached up to one of the legs currently dangling next to his ear and pinched him lightly, making his little brother squeak and then giggle again. He wasn’t sure why Nie Huaisang was still so worried about his offer to buy him a map – he hadn’t even known that the under-five age group could have a sense of financial economy, much less guilt over it, but then again he didn’t know much about kids that age anyway – but no matter what he wasn’t having any of it.

In this life, his brother would be happy for as long as Nie Mingjue could give him.

Of course, making Nie Huaisang happy would be easier if he wasn’t so picky.

“Didi, didi, it’s all right,” he said, trying to be soothing and not really remembering how. “You don’t need to be afraid - Lan Xichen is a friend…I’m sorry, Xichen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“It’s no problem,” Lan Xichen said, looking exactly as one would expect a nine-year-old being addressed as a peer by a twelve-year-old that his guardian routinely praised as a role model would be – which was to say, a little pleased, a little uncertain, and mostly confused. The shrieking four-year-old wasn’t helping matters, either. “I don’t think I’ve done anything to offend him...?”

“You’re blind,” Nie Huaisang hissed at him, tears still streaming down his face. “Blind, blind, blind!”

“No, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue said helplessly. He had no idea where Nie Huaisang got these ideas into his head, was it a feature of early childhood or something? “He’s not – look, the bandage is around his forehead, right? Not his eyes. And since when do you have something against blind people anyway?”

Nie Huaisang buried his face into his side. “Stupid da-ge.”

Nie Mingjue patted him on the back. “Sorry,” he said to Lan Xichen again. “This isn’t exactly the first impression I was hoping for.”

Lan Xichen abruptly grinned, looking for a moment like a regular child rather than the polite and reserved young man Nie Mingjue had known for so many years – it reminded him a little of the boy from the future timeline that he’d only seen brief glimpses of through the pieces of his soul that were attached to the pieces of his body, the loud and irreverent one called Lan Jingyi.

Back then he'd wondered abstractly how exactly such a boy could be related to the Lan clan, stately and elegant even when they acted radically, and now all of a sudden he saw that boy staring out of him from Lan Xichen’s immature face.

“Bet you thought you’d look a lot more dashing, didn’t you?” Lan Xichen asked merrily. “Flying in on your swords, jumping down for a perfect landing, and then – waaaaaaah!”

Nie Mingjue laughed, because it really had happened a bit like that.

“Don’t forget the domino effect,” he said wryly, glancing over at where Wei Wuxian was being plied with treats from a bag pulled from Nie Zonghui’s sleeve – he’d started sympathy crying when Nie Huaisang had inexplicably started wailing, and was having trouble stopping even though he admitted that nothing was actually wrong with him other than having feelings. “They’re probably just over-tired from the trip.”

“Did you really fly all the way from Qinghe?” Lan Xichen asked eagerly. “All by yourself?”

“We made a lot of stops –”

“But you were on your own sword, right? Just you?”

“It’s a saber and I was carrying Huaisang, but yes, in terms of who was in charge of propulsion, it was just me.”

Lan Xichen heaved a sigh full of obvious envy, and Nie Mingjue smiled. “If you want, I can petition your uncle that you act as my guide to the surrounding environs as well as the Cloud Recesses itself? He’d have to let you fly by yourself if that was the case.”

“Oh, would you?” Lan Xichen enthused. “That would be great! I’m not that good yet, but I’m not going to get good if I don’t have a chance to practice, except Uncle is always saying that – oh, wait, I’m not supposed to say –”

“Speaking of others behind their back is prohibited,” Nie Mingjue said solemnly, then cracked up at the dumbfounded expression on Lan Xichen’s face. “No, I’m sorry, I won’t quote your sect rules at you, I promise, it was just a joke…”

“You’d better!”

He rather liked this enthusiastic version of Lan Xichen, Nie Mingjue thought.

Even Nie Huaisang seemed to have gotten over his initial fright to start begrudgingly enjoying all of Lan Xichen’s chattering and bustling around – Nie Mingjue thought he might, given that Lan Xichen currently reminded him immensely of an extremely chatty blue-breasted quail and Nie Huaisang had always liked those. There was so much life in Lan Xichen, good humor and cheer filling him up until he was practically bursting with it; he hadn’t yet had to learn how to hold back his feelings and hide them, hadn’t yet learned that the only acceptable way to interact with others was through a carefully practiced smile.

Perhaps what was why Lan Xichen had been so drawn to Meng Yao, Nie Mingjue reflected – Meng Yao had hidden himself underneath a smile, too. Where he himself had admired Meng Yao for what he had thought was his strength of character, his ability to ignore the jibes and the slights he faced in favor of carrying on and doing what must be done, just as Nie Mingjue longed to be able to do, perhaps Lan Xichen had from the very first moment seen Meng Yao as someone in need of sympathy and affection. Perhaps it had been his own suffering projected onto Meng Yao’s open, facile face that had so tugged on his heartstrings.

It was a little odd, though.

It was a long time ago, but Nie Mingjue recalled meeting Lan Xichen when they were both quite young, and if he put his mind to thinking about it, he was pretty sure they would have met in about two years’ time – his fourteen to Lan Xichen’s eleven, with Nie Huaisang nearly six and Lan Wangji nearly seven. And yet the Lan Xichen he had met had been so very different from this, far more serious and reserved, quiet more often than not, that practiced smile already on his face and only with great reluctance melting into something real…

He wondered why there had been such a great change.

In the meantime, Nie Mingjue relieved Nie Zonghui of his duties on account of their safety – the older man had been to Gusu before for discussion conferences, and looked extremely bored – and took Nie Huaisang’s hand in one hand and Wei Wuxian’s in the other, and the three of them followed Lan Xichen around as he pointed out all the things he liked best.

Wei Wuxian broke away at one point and sped into the brush, shrieking something about a rabbit, and when they gave chase and found him again, he’d somehow bumped into Lan Wangji, who with his white clothing and solemn expression resembled nothing so much a bunny himself.

“Nie-da-ge, this is my friend!” Wei Wuxian hollered, even though they couldn’t have been talking for more than a few minutes before the rest of them caught up. “His name’s Lan Zhan! I’m keeping him forever!”

Nie Huaisang sniggered, and Nie Mingjue poked him – it was rude to laugh at other people’s earnestness.

“That’s nice, Wuxian,” he said, and formally saluted Lan Wangji, knowing how much the other boy liked rules and things being done right. “I’m pleased to meet you, Wangji. I hope we can be friends as well.”

Lan Wangji stared at him mutely for a long moment, and then his entire face slowly turned bright red as if he were boiling.

Nie Mingjue blinked, unsure about the reason for such an extreme reaction, but standing beside him Lan Xichen cackled. “Oh, oh, this is great,” he crowed. “Wait till I tell Mom!”

Lan Wangji attempted to bite him, which naturally made Wei Wuxian leap to his friend’s assistance, and somehow Nie Huaisang ended up wading into the fray with a stick that he waved around like a war-fan, seeking inexplicably to defend Lan Xichen despite having previously displayed no fondness for him at all.

Nie Mingjue waded in as well, of course, trying to separate them and somehow ending up as everyone’s target when they realized that he was strong enough to pick them all up and toss them (lightly) into the piles of soft grass that covered the meadow, even Lan Xichen, and at that point they all threw themselves at him eagerly in order to be throw back.

Nie Mingjue wasn’t really thinking about that, though. He was thinking about what Lan Xichen had said.

He was thinking about – Mom.

Not Nie Mingjue’s own, naturally. She’d been gone since he was younger than Nie Huaisang was now. Perhaps it was because Nie Mingjue had his father and his aunts and his uncles, but he had never really felt the lack of her all that much, except maybe when he needed to learn some etiquette he didn’t know or when his peers spoke fondly of their own mothers. Nor was he thinking of Nie Huaisang’s mother, who had been very nice and whose untimely death had upset him immensely; he honestly hadn’t thought of either of them in years and years by the time he’d died.

But rather, he thought about Lan Xichen’s mother – Lan Wangji’s mother –

Nie Mingjue hadn’t learned the story of her fate until much, much later in life, when he was very nearly an adult. The Lan sect had always kept their secrets very well, and he might never have learned the details if it hadn’t been for Lan Xichen willingly divulging them. He’d told him the whole awful story of how his mother had not loved his father even though he loved her, how she had killed someone dear to him, how he had married her to save her and gone into seclusion to punish himself, how the Lan sect, ever concerned with its face, had covered it all up by forcing her into permanent seclusion…

The story had never really sat right with him. A punishment was one thing, entirely justifiable; murder was murder, and life imprisonment was a valid sentence, a valid commutation of the death sentence that she probably ought to have received. It was not Nie Mingjue’s place to question how the Lan sect selected and imposed punishments…

And yet, something about it had always felt rotten.

Maybe it was only that the Nie sect didn’t believe in solitary imprisonment. Or, well, really solitary anything, with even seclusion being done in a relatively well-traveled area so that those inside could, if they wished, open a one-sided window to hear the noise and know that their family was around them. Even their tombs, their saber halls, were joined together into what was practically a necropolis – even in death, the Nie sect would rather be together than apart.

If he recalled correctly, Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji’s mother would soon be taken away from them for good. She’d died when Lan Xichen was – ten? Ten to Lan Wangji’s six, yes, that sounded right.

A year from now, then. Less, maybe.

“– xiongzhang is da-ge, not er-ge!”

“No, you don’t understand, my da-ge is older – and bigger – so he’s da-ge, and your xiongzhang is er-ge, and that means you’d be san-ge, and Wei-gege is – wait, which one of you is older?”

“Huaisang, it doesn’t work that way, we’re not the same family –”

“What are you even talking about?” Nie Mingjue asked, abruptly coming out of his thoughts. They’d continued playing while he daydreamed, and now Lan Xichen was perched on his back like a monkey, with Nie Huaisang on one of Nie Mingjue’s shoulder while Wei Wuxian hung off the other arm’s bicep and Lan Wangi clung to his neck in front like a sloth on a branch, as Nie Mingjue demonstrated that he could, in fact, keep walking with all of them attached. Every single one of them seemed to think this was the absolute height of entertainment. “Who’s related to what now? Huaisang, can’t you just call Xichen Xichen-ge or something?”

“Oh, fine. Xichen-gege! Xichen-gege!”

“Nie-didi! Nie-didi!”

“Too loud,” Lan Wangji sniffed.

“Didn’t you hear Lan Zhan?!” Wei Wuxian promptly hollered at the top of his lungs. “You’re all being too loud!”

“I’m going to throw each and every one of you into a pond,” Nie Mingjue said. “One by one, if I have to.”

“Do you promise?” Lan Xichen giggled in his ear. “That sounds like fun!”

“Actually,” Nie Mingjue said, “I had a different thought. How about we play hide-and-seek?”

The advantage of future knowledge, Nie Mingjue thought, was that he knew exactly where Madame Lan’s home was and how to get there within the time period he’d suggested for the initial hiding.

The disadvantage was that he was so focused on achieving his goal that he forgot that what implications might be taken from a twelve-year-old boy breaking into a woman’s home, especially at a time when she wasn’t expecting visitors.

“I’m so sorry!” he all but shrieked, covering his eyes even though he had already turned his back. “Please put on clothing!”

“Oh, your face –” Madame Lan was guffawing. “You’re so red – boy, you don’t have to throw yourself out the window in penance or anything. I’m still wearing my inner robe, you can’t even see anything.”

“It’s still inappropriate!”

“Could be worse. I could’ve been –”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” he begged. “I swear I’m not actually doing this because I have a crush on you, so please, please, please don’t give me any details about what you do in the privacy of your own home, okay? And stop offering me your under-things! I don’t want them!”

“I was only doing laundry,” she said, almost crying with laughter. “I didn’t mean to throw my underwear at your face, it was really just the closest thing to hand…who are you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be introducing yourself to me?”

“I’ll introduce myself when you’re dressed and not a moment earlier.”

“Oh, all right, have it your way. Give me a moment.” There was some rustling. “All right, turn around.”

He peeked and sighed with relief: Madame Lan was, in fact, appropriately dressed in a lovely white silk dress, adorned with the typical Lan sect cloud embroidery and everything. The style was a little freer and less conservative than he might have expected to see the mistress of a Great Sect wearing, but then again he supposed she’d never actually had to do the work associated with it. It was hard to host a society party from seclusion…

“Qinghe Nie’s Nie Mingjue greets He Kexin, Madame Lan,” he said, saluting properly. “I’m a visitor to your sect.”

“I hadn’t realized that we were anticipating visitors from another Great Sect,” she remarked. “Normally there’s a great deal more hustle and bustle involved with preparing to receive a visit.”

“It’s an informal one,” Nie Mingjue explained. “Somewhat, uh, abrupt. We didn’t send word in advance. You see, we recently accepted Cangse Sanren and her husband as guest disciples, and shortly thereafter the Jiang sect paid us an unexpected visit…”

Madame Lan had clearly heard about that disaster, if the way she put her hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle her chortling was any indication.

“I think I see the issue, being as I happen to remember Cangse Sanren very well,” she said, her eyes dancing. “What a troublemaker. She even shaved off Qiren-xiaoshuzi’s beard one time! I’m guessing based on the way you turned into a boiled crayfish that she scared you out of your own home?”

Nie Mingjue opened his mouth to protest, except, well, that wasn’t entirely inaccurate…

“What a charming little egg you are! You’re such a rotten liar that you can’t even do it to save face.”

“Being dishonest isn’t saving face,” Nie Mingjue said, even though his face felt like it was burning and he was probably just as red as she said he was. “The truth is what the truth is, that’s all. You’re not wrong, that’s more or less what happened – I brought Huaisang and Wuxian here so that we could get away from all the yelling.”

“You picked a good place for that,” Madame Lan said, and there was a dull look in her eye all of a sudden. Nothing like the liveliness from a few moments before. “There’s nowhere like the Cloud Recesses for quiet.”

Nie Mingjue bit his lip, not quite sure how to say what he wanted to say. Right up until that moment, she hadn’t seemed at all sick, the way he’d thought she’d be – less than a year before she died, from what he remembered of Lan Xichen’s stories. He’d assumed she’d already be ill with the early stages whatever it was that had eventually taken her from her sons.

But now, he didn’t think she was sick, not really, only…bored.

Dreadfully, horribly bored. The sort of bored that drained your life away bit by bit.

Formal training in swordsmanship and scholarship began at six at the Cloud Recesses, Nie Mingjue abruptly remembered. There were plenty of lessons prior to that, of course, but at age six they would become formalized, the children shifting over from the realm of babies to proper young-adults-to-be. Once Lan Wangji turned six, Madame Lan would have had nothing to look forward to in life.

Nothing, except for her children starting to drift further and further away from her: nothing to do, no purpose, no friends…

Just boredom.

“The Unclean Realm has a communal prison,” he blurted out, and then smacked his hands into his face to hide his shame for being such an inconsiderate ass. Why had he thought he could do this by himself?

He wasn’t even sure what he’d originally come here to accomplish, other than to let Madame Lan know that she ought to see a doctor sooner rather than later in the hopes that they would be able to catch and stymie whatever disease it had been that had killed her, except now of course Nie Mingjue understood that it was no disease at all.

“…what?” she said blankly.

It was too late to retreat, so Nie Mingjue gathered up every bit of courage he’d ever had and barreled onwards.

“I just mean,” he said, tripping over his words, “if you’d like to be – a bit less quiet. Even if your sentence is life imprisonment, surely you don’t have to necessarily serve it here, right?”

Madame Lan stared at him. His shoulders started creeping up to his ears.

“Actually,” she said abruptly, “I was never sentenced.”

He gaped at her. “You – what?”

“Qiren-xiaoshuzi pushed for it, said it was only fair that I knew the exact contours of my punishment, but the sect elders refused,” she explained. “They didn’t want to lose face by having a trial at all, not even privately.”

“But – but if you haven’t been sentenced, you can’t be imprisoned!”

“Is that so?” she asked, looking amused.

“You can’t,” Nie Mingjue insisted, horrified. “The laws of war say that someone can be executed on the spot for committing a crime, but in peacetime they have to be sentenced first even if you catch them red-handed. What if your accuser recants his accusation, whether because he was wrong or because he decided not to press charges? If they recant, you can’t be tried; if you can’t be tried, even if everyone knows you’ve done wrong, you still must be released. No trial, no sentence, no imprisonment!”

“Tell that to the Lan sect,” she said dryly. “Not even my husband could do more than he did to forestall my punishment, and he’s sect leader. Nominally, anyway.”

This did seem to be a problem of the Lan sect. Of all sects, really – he had his own share of old men causing issues and sticking their noses into things – but he’d never had anywhere near the problem with the sect elders as Lan Xichen had had with his Lan sect.

“Why should I?” Nie Mingjue asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t see why we have to tell them anything at all.”

“Why are we doing this?” Nie Huaisang asked, tugging on Nie Mingjue’s sleeve.

“I already explained,” Nie Mingjue said, which he had. He’d also explained that he’d run in there by accident while looking for a place to hide, and he’d tried to look as much like a stupid twelve-year-old as possible when he said it. “About the lack of a trial –”

Nie Huaisang tugged again. “Not that. Why are we rescuing her?”

“Because she might die if we don’t,” Nie Mingjue said. “She’s very bored in there all by herself.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? It’d make Xichen and Wangji sad if she died.”

“So?”

“So they shouldn’t be sad if they don’t have to be! I don’t want them to be sad because they lost a parent…don’t you remember being sad about your mom having died, Huaisang?”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said. “I had da-ge.”

Nie Mingjue sighed. He’d keep this conversation in mind for later when Nie Huaisang was old enough to actually understand the concept of death, and then he’d use it to torment him forever.

“Wouldn’t you be sad if da-ge died, then?” he asked, and felt Nie Huaisang’s hands abruptly clutch tight on his arms. “There you go. That’s why we’re doing this.”

Nie Huaisang nodded, but he was still scowling a little in his adorable childhood way, and Nie Mingjue thought for a second that he heard him murmuring something about inviting unnecessary trouble under his voice, but…whatever, it wasn’t important.

What was more important was that Lan Xichen had arrived with what Nie Mingjue had asked him to fetch for him, his cheeks bright pink with excitement. “Nie-da-ge,” he hissed even though there wasn’t anyone in the area, thrusting the package into Nie Mingjue’s arms. “I got it!”

“Good,” Nie Mingjue said, then paused. “Er, you don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind? Mind what?”

“That I’m kind of, uh, well – I mean, I’m kidnapping your mother. You won’t be able to see her as often as you do now if this works…”

“She’ll be free,” Lan Wangji, trailing behind Lan Xichen as always, said solemnly. Then he stuck his thumb in his mouth, which somewhat ruined the effect.

Wei Wuxian, who’d rushed over to stand next to him as soon as he’d seen him, hugged him tightly. “You’ll come over all the time,” he assured him. “My mom will like your mom, and we’ll all go outside and play all the time. We’ll be really happy!”

Lan Wangji sniffed and buried his face into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.

“It’s like Wangji said,” Lan Xichen said. His eyes were intense. “She’s not happy here, she’s not free here, and we only see her once a month anyway – less, in the future, once we’re both busy with lessons all the time. If she can be free somewhere else…you will let us come visit, right?”

“As often as you’re allowed,” Nie Mingjue promised, as it was about all he could do. “I’ll talk to my father about it…”

His father would probably have a fit.

Still, this was an injustice. Even if his father disagreed, it was something he had to do. He’d justify it with reference to their sect principles, and take any punishment duty his father chose to impose.

“It doesn’t matter, he’ll agree,” he said firmly. “You’ll definitely be able to visit.”

“Can I raise an objection?” Nie Zonghui said mournfully from where he was hovering by the side of the clearing. “Possibly two – no, three objections.”

Nie Mingjue looked at him and tilted his head to the side in silent question.

“One, your father said not to get into trouble, if you’ll trouble yourself to remember back that far,” he said, raising a finger. “Two, how exactly do you plan to break the array keeping Madame Lan imprisoned? And three, even if you do break it, how do you plan to get her out?”

The first was irrelevant. The other two…

“We’re going to walk out the front gate,” Nie Mingjue said, and opened up the package Lan Xichen had gotten him – as he’d suspected, there had been spare robes for Qinghe Nie disciples left behind from the previous discussion conference, and sure enough the Lan sect had kept hold of them as a courtesy to the owners. “The Lan sect has never affirmatively stated that Madame Lan wasn’t allowed to leave; they just said she was too sickly to do so. Therefore, if we leave with a Nie sect disciple who is clearly capable of walking out, there’s nothing they can do to stop us without admitting that it’s her and that she’s a prisoner – which they won’t do, because then they’d lose face.”

“That barely counts as a plan,” Nie Zonghui said, and for some reason Nie Huaisang nodded in agreement. “But sadly I think it might actually work.”

Nie Huaisang looked betrayed.

“It will work,” Lan Xichen said. “Especially if you insist that she’s one of yours. They won’t be able to call you out without calling you a liar, and they wouldn’t want to do that. Not publicly, not about this.”

“Won’t there be a problem that she’s a girl wearing boy’s clothing?” Wei Wuxian asked, patting Lan Wangji’s head.

“No, that’s not a problem in Qinghe,” Nie Huaisang told him. “You’re new, so you’re not used to it, but it really isn’t. I mean, she could be misaligned or something, it’s not our business.”

“And we won’t be lying about her being one of ours,” Nie Mingjue said. “Since I’ve offered her sanctuary in our sect, it’s even technically true.”

Nie Zonghui sighed. “And if they ask Lan-gongzi and Lan-er-gongzi if she’s their mother?”

“Wangji won’t say anything,” Lan Xichen said at once. “And I’ll – I’ll lie if I have to.”

He was truly unbearably cute at this age.

Nie Zonghui appeared to be suffering from a similar problem, reaching over and patting him lightly on the head in helpless amusement. “Okay, okay. Let’s hope they don’t ask,” he said. “But – Nie-gongzi, we still have the second problem. How do you intend to get Madame Lan out of the imprisonment array?”

Nie Mingjue patted his cousin – who he knew from his future experience was one of the finest array breakers in their sect, a charming side-effect courtesy of his dual-wielded saber cultivation style – on the shoulder. “I intend to delegate.”

Nie Zonghui blinked, then glared. “I walked myself into that one, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Nie Mingjue said peaceably. “Can you break it? I can use Baxia, if it’ll help.”

“Hmph. Yes, it would help a great deal, but will she agree to consume an array for you? That’s fairly high-grade work, and talent or no talent, you’re still fairly new to mastering the saber.”

Nie Mingjue put his hand on Baxia’s blade, which felt warm and pleased. Practically purring. At some point he would need to investigate why she was so happy all the time – she’d never been this compliant in his first life, and he’d expected her to be more vicious, not less. “Yes, she’ll be happy to help.”

“Fine. Let’s go.” Nie Zonghui paused briefly. “Also, if your father asks, you held Baxia to my throat and made me do it. It was definitely not me being curious about whether or not I could break such a complicated array.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Nie Mingjue said understandingly, and drew Baxia. “All right. Let’s go get ourselves banned from the Cloud Recesses.”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #lan xichen #wei wuxian #lan wangji #nie zonghui #madame lan #my fic #my fics #time travel nie bros

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inb4belphienaps · 4 years ago

Text

für immer

warnings: pov change to 1st person, angst :”) word count: 1005

The only other time he’d used his powers for selfish reasons had also come to fruition from the labors of love. Another weakness of his. The one that tangles itself within the greed in his grip and leaves him breathless and shaking, long into the night.

Stolen glances, words full of fancy, brief and heated kisses, lips so soft and tender. Just when he thinks he may forget, he is seized by the immovability of it all. That somewhere out there, despite his current lonesome, he is with you.

Timelines, no, realities, where you are his and he is yours. Realities that he has seen and felt and lived and breathed. Where he’s touched you and held you and slept by your side, undisturbed and perfectly happy.

How then can you blame him?

For someone who has had a taste of what could be and what is, is he so wrong for wanting to choose the reality that has you looking at him and only him? Is he so wrong for feeling frustrated when he knows what would be, were he to take your hand and never let go?

Is he so wrong to try to repress that desire, only for it to grow with each passing hour, each passing second, that he isn’t gazing upon your smile?

This intemperance, it’s all consuming. I fear that one day, I shall cross the line and throw time itself out of balance. Would that do? Would that finally mean that you can stay here with me and I with you?

Would you stop me from scrutinizing how our fate plays out? Would you despise me for the tears I shed in knowing what I know? Would you forgive me for the shield I put around my heart in the pitiful hopes of guarding it from you?

Your presence, it soothes me. I tell you as such and the affection in your features is enough to chip away at my armor. I continue to build and to reinforce these poorly conceived defenses, and yet like a silent storm, you rain down on me with your laughter, with your whispers, and your gentle admissions.

My false dispassion is washed away, so carefully, so tenderly, that I don’t even notice. I start to yearn for more, to hate the idea of saying goodbye. To part with you when the hour grows late, and the sky darkens beyond recognition, seems trivial and frivolous. I tire of it. But it doesn’t seem to affect you the same way.

I become desperate. I wrench open every door, find myself hearing conversations over and over again, just to see if there is a timeline in which I don’t love you. A timeline where I might have succeeded in maintaining my distance and my dignity.

Is there such a reality? Or have I been cursed by fate? Is this the price I must pay for the powers that I possess?

I become lost. No longer do I care to live in the present. In fact, I cannot remember which door I myself originally came from. What does it matter?

My only wish is to see those moments wherein your love for me is palpable. I sift through the timelines, like a man possessed with need. I collect all your smiles. I engrave all your confessions into the deepest recesses of my mind. I tear myself apart at the faintest of your touches.

I close my eyes and I remember the warmth of your fingertips. I remember the line of your neck and the place that makes you weak. I remember the feel of your embrace, how perfectly we fit in each other’s arms.

“My love, my dearest, won’t you stay?”, you’ll ask.

And my breath catches in my throat.

“You must be tired. You can rest now. Rest here with me, my love.”

To a cold and strikingly conflicting reality do I then emerge. Your words and wishes, your secrets and your hidden desires, of such knowledge I am burdened with.

You appear to look at me differently. Like a part of you knows what I have done, what I plan to do and what I cannot seem to stop myself from doing. For what appears to be the first time, you look upon me with fear in your eyes.

This fear that tints your gaze, a mistake I cannot change. My own reality warps and though I anticipate your visits, seldom do they come. The space between us grows and I find those instances unravelling. Like a loose cotton thread on a sleeve, it unfurls and unwinds, until there is nothing left.

How does a human like you know as much as me, if not more? What do you see beyond the carefully crafted performance I put on for you? How do you piece together such delicacies? Why am I unable to convince you?

My love, you’d said. My love. Not for much longer, I think. Still, I feel the familiar prick of selfishness rear its ugly head as you hold a stranger’s hand. Heat blazes inside my palm and it’s as if you are instead holding mine.

I place it in a box. That smile you give to another, that affection not meant for me.

And before I know it, I have done it so often that I begin to forget to put them away entirely. To remove those needless emotions so that I may keep focus. So that I may, eventually, come to terms with your decisions.

I watch, and I wait. And I think this time may be different.

But you do not turn to me. Your eyes do not soften with the tenderness I search for. Your heart, it beats, but not for me.

Once more, I am surrounded by the ruin of my own undoing. This avarice, this lack of control. This power…this lack of time. These walls, they turn to rubble, and I stare at your retreating back as you are taken from me anew.

#wanted to actually crack 1000 words but oh the pain #obey me writing #obey me angst #obey me barbatos #obey me! barbatos #barbatos x reader #barbatos x gn reader #my writing 🐇

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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Five of Pentacles

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | one

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Still reeling from the attack on Jortho, you begin your journey to scower the systems for galactic aid. The Mandalorian takes you aboard his ship temporarily, agreeing to shuttle you to your next destination. You both figure your tenure on the Razor Crest will be short lived... But you've been wrong before.

Word count: 3.8k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings: blood/gore, minor character death (mentioning), mature themes/language, vomiting

Notes: Hi friends. Here we go. Chapter 2... The last paragraph is marked with ///|||///, denoting a change to Mando's POV— his pov will be cropping up now and again, and I have a tendency to play with the timeline/tenses when it does. Enjoy x

You have to think about it. Genuinely.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit, with the Mandalorian looking down at you expectantly, a gloved hand slotted against his belt—postured and waiting.

‘Do you have a way off this skug hole?’

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It snaps closed. You swallow, but the action provides no relief. Your tongue feels too big for the small space it’s trapped in; too swollen, too dust logged— like you could choke on it, if you really tried. Finally, a single syllable frees itself, the weight of it plummeting through your ribs, ricocheting off the bones until it lands in your stomach with a dull, sinking splash.

“No.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you need to get anything?”

You shake your head, small at first, phantom movements, before stringing together a sentence. “N-No. It’s all gone. Everything I had- it all went up on the shuttle-“

Oh gods, the shuttles.

Your heart seizes, a cold hand like a vice, gripping the bloody organ. You feel green; sickly chartreuse slithering it’s way up your esophagus, poisoning your soft palate. There were pilots on board when the ships blew. Two on each one. That’s four— four people. You knew their names. Knew their home planets. Knew about their families. One had a kid. Fuck. That’s four dead, and you didn’t even think of them— Maker, how could you not have thought about them?— No, fuck, fuck fuck-

It didn’t before but it’s hitting you now, stabbing you right between the eyes, the image of their bodies disintegrating in the blast wave, charring up like coal and carbon. You breathed them in, you realize. Their corpses coat your lungs.

The thought is all it takes.

Your feet move on instinct, scrambling to the side of his gunship where you vomit, bracing yourself against the riveted siding as you hack and sputter, wretching bile and what little broth you’d had for supper to splatter onto the cracked earth. Mercifully you’re hidden enough around the corner that you don’t think the bounty hunter sees, and if he does, he has the curtesy not to say anything.

What a gentleman, you think dryly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

You pant, body beyond spent, chest heaving as you press your scratched palm into the durasteel, the cool metal soothing it’s sting. Moments stretch like this— you doubled over, catching your breath— before you stumble back into view, graceless and encumbered, as if you didn’t just casually throw up down the front of yourself. You stand below him at the bottom of the ramp. He’s still there, a fixed point. Steel boots welded into the steel ramp.

“Uhm, are you-“

You cough, and it’s an ugly, hoarse sound; your throat burns, roughened and raw around the edges, and your nerves are too strung out for polite colloquialisms. You don’t have the energy to play coy and tip toe around the question. You’re fucking tired.

You try again.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

And now it’s his turn to hesitate, almost like he didn’t fully think the proposition through— as if it’s all just dawning on him now.

The Mandalorian didn’t strike you as someone who familiarized himself with answering to anyone— or picking up hitchhikers, for that matter— even if the offer was his to begin with... That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Those words in that order? He meant to give you transport off planet? He wasn’t just… making conversation? Did Mandalorians even do that? Maker, if you’ve read this whole situation wrong, no small thanks to a laser-brain full of mush, you reckon you’d die from embarrassment on the spot where you stood, splotched with soot and puke and blood.

You think he’s going to tell you to shove off— you see his hand balling into a fist at his side— and close the ramp right then and there. Be rid of you. Sluffed, like a flea from a dog.

But he doesn’t. He surprises you both.

“Yes.”

Oh. Oh. Kriff, okay. Think think think-

Your mind reels and you’re rambling now, words ending and beginning in the same breath— steamrolling over yourself.

“Okay, I-I need to go back in to town, just for a—I cant let them think I’m just leaving them like this... Is that okay? I’m sorry, I won’t take long, I promise, I just— they need to know I’m getting help. Is that- uhm, can you wait? Can you wait for me?”

There’s another unreadable pause that makes you want to bury your head in the cold, fallow soil.

The man is looking at you like you’ve grown another kriffing leg, but eventually he grumbles out a noise that sounds like an affirmative, turning on his heel, and disappears into the belly of the ship— leaving you there alone.

Alone.

Pin pricks needle at the nape of your neck and the hair down your arm stands on end.

Alone.

You’re alone for the first time since the attack and suddenly you feel half your size and shrinking smaller still, like atoms collapsing and folding in on themselves until they dematerialize completely—and you along with them. You tell yourself to breath. To fight the bubbles of panic as they burst and pop, dimpling you from the inside out. Breath. Focus, he said. Focus.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

The Mandalorian never reemerges.

Well… you guess that was your cue.

///

Staggering back into Jortho is like sleepwalking through a nightmare.

The smoke from the bombing has completely engulfed the lower atmosphere, doming the town in a thick canopy; the sky is blackened, starless, and the moons hover noncommittally like mere suggestions in the dark canvas.

Half the town had been decimated to rubble, and the other half was covered in the shockwave of it’s explosion— caked in grime, windows knocked out, doors splintered open. You almost expected the pieces to have reversed themselves back up, like you’ve seen in holovid special effects—homes rebuilding, fires dousing themselves, air purifying itself from the smog… but they don’t. They remain in shambles.

Time has granted you the unforgiving gift of clarity, and it’s one you’d rather not have been given. You don’t want to see the aftermath without the saccharine filter of shock to cushion you. The town is just as you left it, but somehow worse— worse because you can hear the crying, now. The wailing. You didn’t before with the blood pumping in your ears, deafening you, but you do now. The woeful noises that reverberate over the crackling embers still smoldering, the muffled sobs being choked down behind fractured walls.

Tripping over stray debris, you find Hareem close to where you’d left her, her fuse short hair grey with ash. The blood you smeared from her cheek still clouds her skin there, staining it as it does your fingers that wiped it. She wobbles to her feet and meets you in the middle of the road.

Neither of you speak, not at first. You hold onto her shoulders, and like a pillar of salt, you quake.

You try explaining to her that the communication’s system on your transport freighter had been blown up alongside the town, that you’ve accepted a ride from the bounty hunter and that you’re getting off world to contact the RRM headquarters, that you’d stay if you could but you can’t and you need to call for assistance, for help. You try to tell her that you’d do anything— travel through dimensions, if you could, to undo all of this chaos— if the laws of time allowed it.

You want to go back and pretend today never happened. To unlearn the tremor in your hands as they grip her frame. To unlearn all of this. To unknow. But,

you can’t.

All you can do is move forward. Do the next right thing. Take the next right step.

You’ve explained yourself in circles but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The words feel shallow, like slapping some bacta on a severed limb, and guilt rips through you— your voice torn with it.

“But how can I leave now?” you ask helplessly, eyes skittering around you. “After all- all of this?”

Hareem finds your hands, her spindled fingers encasing your own. A crease engraves her forehead, little lines clustering around her eyes. “You’ve done enough, hm? You go now. Go with that Mandalorian. You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“Har-“

She doesn’t let you say it. The older woman soothes a thumb into the web between your knuckles.

“Make contact. Comm for aid. It will come, but it won’t if you stay here.”

Your shoulders release with a defeated sigh. You know the Balosar’s right— you’re the one who’s told her as much. That’s RRM protocol. In case of emergency, you were to comm in and reconvene with the closest branch to your system to send additional supplies and volunteers to the camp. You know this better than anyone here, and yet this woman, this refugee, was the one aping your mission back to you.

She’s firm. Kind. “You’re just one person.”

Briefly, you wonder if she’s a parent. You think her child would be lucky to have her as their mother-- all of her somber strength. You think you would have been lucky, too.

Maybe things would be different—maybe you’d be different.

You gather yourself, piece by piece, and give her knobby hand a squeeze. You bore into her, determined and unwavering. You need her to understand. “I’m not abandoning you—any of you. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I know, my friend,” Hareem says plainly, a sad sort of resolve quieting her tone. She has no fight left, nothing left to give— as empty as her pockets, lint lined and turned out. Barren. “I know.”

///

You weave your way back to the ship, feet padding across the arid landscape. You don’t blink, not even once, eyes crusted open and gaping. You barely remember the trek but somehow you’ve managed it, treading up the ramp, the thuds sounding hollow and foreign to your ear.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Maker almighty,” you gasp, hand coming up to clutch your canary heart, beating fast and frantic. He’s just standing there, waiting, the dimmed lights of the hull glinting off his beskar. It’d only been a few hours, but you had already somehow forgotten how kriffing imposing he was, how ominous. A vacuum in space.

“O-Okay,” you stutter, a twitch in your brow.

“I’ll get you as far as you need to go, but on my terms. I’m not making a special trip— can’t promise you when.”

You nod. You’re not sure what to say. Lamed, all you can do is repeat yourself.

“… Okay.”

“What sector?”

“Bajic,” you start, fiddling with a loose thread poking from your sleeve. “We- uhm, the RRM, we have a branch there, but then—” your throat bobs as you swallow your words, and he gives you an exacting look, tilting his helm subtly. There was no getting around it.

You’re pinned.

“Coruscant. I’ll need to get to Coruscant,” you finish quietly.

Did you just hear him ‘tsk’ under that metal bucket?

“It’ll take a while to get to the Core. Longer than you’d like.”

And here you go, babbling again before you can stop yourself, throwing up defenses, excuses— back pedaling. You’re earnest, and it’s dripping from you. “Listen, if this is too much, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. Really— you don’t have to take me anywhere you don’t want. I-I, honestly, I’m just grateful you even considered it.”

Silence. An endless sea of silence.

No current, no breeze. It feels like you’re stranded in dead water, drowning in it. Again, you hang there on bated breath, just waiting for the man to chuck you from his ship. Not worth the effort. Not worth the fuel.

And again, he surprises you.

He tips his chin, gesturing to the side. “Fresher’s that way. We’ll be up in five.”

You exhale, visibly relieved, and mumble a thank you before shuffling off in the direction he motioned towards. You get one foot through the door before you hear him.

“Dala,”

Your attention snaps to the Mandalorian. There’s that word again—you think he’s called you that before—but there’s something different in his voice now, a lilt you’d not yet heard from him. What is that? Nerves?

“There is… one more thing.”

You cock your head just as a gargled coo comes from somewhere behind him.

///

You look like bantha shit.

Which, considering the events of your evening, should probably go without saying— and yet, the woman staring back at you in the small refresher mirror still manages to startle you.

You’re covered in dirt and cinders and contusions you hadn’t had the luxury to notice before. With the adrenaline retreated from your veins, you finally feel the full scope of your injuries and Maker do they hurt. Your tunic is torn at the collar and the fabric is discolored, pants and boots scuffed and ashen. Your bottom lip is swollen, a split running down the side of it, the seam of which is cracked with dry blood. Your palms are scratched— knuckles, too. There are narrow licks from shrapnel bites nicking your forearm. Twisting your body, you discover a dark bruise already blooming on your shoulder from the initial impact of the blast. You’re stiff and achy all over, and you can practically hear your bones creak and groan with each strained movement.

You turn on the faucet and begin to bend forward before you wince, a sharp pain gripping your skull. Ginger fingers come up to touch the back of your head, patting around tentatively until you find a raised bump and something viscous wetting the strands of your hair. You pull your hand back, inspecting it— more blood, glistening black under the low light.

Your eyes flit back up to your reflection.

You should be scared at this point, you guess. Worried, at the very least, by all of this—by the gore of it, the cuts and marks. But it’s your eyes that frighten you most— they’re hard. Devoid. You don’t recognize them. You’re a stranger.

You blink. She blinks back.

Rust red water eddies in the basin of the sink as you scrub yourself clean. You let out a hiss as the cold stream hits your skin. You count your breaths.

///

Being anywhere on board his ship without the Mandalorian feels wrong. Unnatural. Like you’re a tourist, out of place.

Unsure of where else to go, you find yourself in the cockpit with the bounty hunter, sitting in the seat beside him. Glancing over the knobs and dials and pulsing displays, your focus drifts in and out, posture slumping, lids growing heavy, darkening around the edges of your vision, blurring—

“Try to stay awake.”

With a sharp inhale, your eyes snap open, blinking wildly, and you scoot your hips up higher into the seat. You shoot the back of his helmet an inquisitive look you’re not sure he sees, but he responds to it all the same.

“Could have a concussion.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” you reply, tone low and rolling. Maker above, apparently the final stage of shock was sarcasm. The fact that you thought it wise to damn near sass a Mandalorian on his own ship after he saved your kriffing life...

Stars, maybe it really was a concussion. Brain damage. Had to be.

He doesn’t acknowledge the quip, which you can’t readily blame him for. A quiet beat, red buttons flickering against the dark of the cockpit, and then—

“There’s bacta in the medpack. Might not be much left.”

You’re wide awake now.

Your rebuttal is immediate, bristled even, words escaping before you have a chance to even consider his suggestion. “No— no, thank you, but I’m not taking the last of your supplies. I’ll be fine, you’re- you’re doing enough for me already.” He graces you with another of his grunts, a hush following closely behind it.

Your gaze wanders—it wanders onto him, and you watch him.

Watch as the stars dance across his armor, incandescent and shimmering. Hypnotic, even. Something you hadn’t noticed before catches your eye, and you have to crane your neck to get a good look at it. It’s hard to make out, but you think there’s a symbol on the pauldron adorning his shoulder. You can’t imagine it’s completely cosmetic, seeing as the hem of his cape is frayed and worn (and the fact that being a lethal hunter didn’t really scream ‘needless decoration’), but maybe, if you work up the courage somewhere between here and Coruscant, you’ll ask him about it.

His posture is carved out of stone and he sits like a statue, spine rigid under all that beskar. Fleetingly, you wonder if it’s heavy, if it’s uncomfortable—to carry it with him wherever he goes. But you suppose he’s grown accustom to the weight, wearing it like a second skin.

He’s broad too, you note. Of course he is, you recognized that straight off, but inside the confines of the ship, without the towering Lothal sky as his backdrop, it truly strikes you just how large the Mandalorian is. He engulfs the space around him. Devours it.

You stay like this, entranced, studying the man properly for the first time, allowing the muscles behind your tired eyes to relax on him— until his visor notches up quickly and meets your line of sight in the mirrored pane of the window, catching you in the act.

Kriff.

You avert your eyes, an embarrassed warmth crawling up your neck, suddenly finding a particular panel soldered to the wall incredibly interesting— looking anywhere else but at the faceless stranger you’re saddled with.

The kid gurgles, interrupting the awkwardness, and you’ve never been more grateful for a three pronged toddler in your life.

He’s sitting in the copilot’s seat opposite you, as if the tiny thing is navigating for the Mandalorian, and he’s completely dwarfed by the massive chair. Everything about him juxtaposes the other man. He’s all brown robes and wispy peach fuzz, and he looks almost comically out of place against the interior of the gunship. He’s playing with a shiny metal ball in his lap, and with one small arm, he extends it to you like a gift.

Out of the two of them, the child was a one man welcoming party.

“Is this for me?”

He gives a soft patuu, and your heart nearly bursts. You take it from him gently, and the little guy coos through a babbling grin, cheeks round and impish. “Thank you,” you tell him, all serious-like, and you have to actively suppress the squeal that threatens to break free from you. He glances to the Mandalorian with such a look in those big eyes; its hard to make out, but you think its something close to pride or satisfaction, maybe: Look dad, I shared my toy.

Kriff, this kid is cute. Like, dangerously cute.

You both take each other in like this; your micro expressions, his pruned little forehead, your fleshy form, all soft lines and angles. You’re sure you look just as strange to him and he does to you, especially given the only other lifeform on board he has as reference is coated from head to toe in metal. The child’s gaze snags on a lock of your hair, little teeth peeking through his mouth, eyes glued to it like a metronome as it dangles. You give your head a little shake, strands waving, and he giggles. You skip the ball over the hills of your knuckles, dazzling him momentarily.

“Does he have a name?” You ask, his eyes like black saucers peering curiously at you, and you give him back his toy— an offer he eagerly accepts.

“No.”

“So what do you call him then?”

“Just ‘kid’.”

A beat. “... Do you have a name?”

“Mando.”

“Just ‘Mando’?”

“This is the Way.”

You nod, worrying your cheek absentmindedly as you stare out the transparisteel. This is the Way. You’re not entirely sure what the phrase meant, but you know respect when you hear it— how reverent it sits on his vocal chords— and by the manner of which the man, this Mando, spoke, you can tell there’s more to those words than you know.

And you can appreciate his desire for anonymity; it doesn’t bother you much—you figure you won't be around long enough for it to matter anyways. You don’t know a lot about the Mandalorian people, but you have heard rumors. Everyone had. That’s all they were anymore: rumors and stories. Legends. Just seeing one was rare, and talking to one even rarer. But flying with one and his adorable, green baby? It was… definitely unique, to say the least.

You share more dulled quiet. And although the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable now—you’re settling in to it— it’s not exactly desirable either, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t last.

Mando clears his throat, breaking the white noise that’s blanketed the three of them. He doesn’t turn his helmet. He keeps his focus straight ahead. You watch his reflection in the ship’s window and you can’t know for certain, but you think you feel your eyes brush against his, if only for a moment. A unintelligible noise filters through his modulator.

“Do you?”

You grin, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Last I checked.”

It’s the first smile he draws from you. The first of many.

///

Despite Mando’s warnings and better judgement, sleeping is exactly what you end up doing. You pass out, hard, stirring only once when an errant beep sounds through the cockpit. You’d fallen asleep right there in the chair, chin tucked into your chest, hair fanned across your cheek, arms wrapped around your waist in a measly attempt to trap your body heat to you. You’ve woken to find the cockpit empty— the ship must be on autopilot, you think— and by the illuminating glow of hyperspace, you spot his medkit, sitting open on the seat across from you and in it, nestled among old wrappings and gauze, a single patch of bacta.

///|||///

That smile.

Din remembers this moment, much later, holding it like a photo in a locket. Private. Secret. He keeps you there, gold plated on a chain, to loop around his memory.

Encircling him. Strangling him.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x fem!reader #King of Cups #ngl i got kinda emotional writing some bits #idk why but the hareem scenes kill me #din djarin fic #mando x you #din djarin x you #no y/n #pedro pascal #mando x female oc #din djarin x female oc #ofc

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marvelyningreen · 4 years ago

Text

Linger

[Summary: You’d always struggled with your mutant abilities. Now, as doubts and frustrations weigh on your mind, you find encouragement from both a friend, and from a mentor.

Warnings: mild language

Notes: Peter Maximoff x reader, featuring Professor Xavier for platonic reassurance (because the world can always use more platonic fluff.) Set in a corner of the multiverse where the X-Men reboot timeline is happening largely as in canon, but the Dark Phoenix storyline isn’t. ]

You shut your eyes tightly. Focus, focus…

With every fiber of your being tensed in concentration, you have to remind yourself to breathe. You should be able to do this.

For a moment – for the briefest instant - you think you feel a lightening in your heels. But that realization breaks your concentration. With a sudden jerk – like the falling sensation that comes when you’re about to fall asleep – your heels thud back into the ground.

You swear quietly under your breath, grateful that everyone else is busy with class at the moment, meaning they won’t see you out in the gardens. It’s enough of an embarrassment to be struggling like this without the added pressure of an audience. You’d better take a break, though, before you burst a blood vessel or something.

You don’t even have a chance to register the impossibly fast breeze that shoots by you before you hear a familiar voice say:

“Whatcha doin’?”

And it nearly makes you jump out of your skin, just like every time.

“Cripes, Peter!” you gasp, “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Peter’s grin turns a little sheepish, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry,” he says. “Hang on, let me try again.”

And then he’s disappeared, and you hear the measured sound of footsteps on the paved pathway. A few seconds later, Peter strolls casually into view around the corner of the hedgerow. He pauses, spreading his arms and tilting his head slightly.

“That better?”

You can’t help but laugh. Somehow, even his sarcasm seems cheerful. You feel bad for being short with him, even if you were startled.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was just lost in thought, and you caught me off-guard.”

“I’ll say. But my original question stands. What are you doing out here?”

Even when he’s intentionally slowing himself down, Peter still talks quite fast. When you’d first met him, it’d take you a second to process what he’d said. These days, it’s easier for you to keep pace – at least with his conversation.

“You’re asking me, the groundskeeper, what I’m doing out on the grounds?”

You give him a wry smile, hoping the answer will throw him off track. You’re not sure you want to discuss your current state of mind with anyone, and especially not Peter Maximoff. You blink, and he’s standing much closer than before.

“That’d be a fair answer,” he says, “Except for the fact that you forgot to turn the lights off in the cottage before you left, and you only do that when something’s bugging you.”

Your brows furrow. “Did you just-?”

“Nah.” Peter shakes his head. “I didn’t know where you were, so I swung by the cottage first. And you weren’t there, and you weren’t in the mansion, so I came looking for you out here.”

You immediately seize on the opportunity to change the subject.

“You were looking for me? Why, do you need something?”

“Nope. I was just bored. But you’re out here looking like somebody took a hedge-trimmer to your rosebushes. What’s got you so frustrated?”

He’s looking keenly at you with those big dark eyes of his, and you feel your resolve start to weaken. You turn away, trying not to make it obvious that you’re avoiding his gaze.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “It’s nothing.”

He’s right beside you now, and he nudges your shoulder teasingly.

“Come on, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Peter…”

He nudges you again. “You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

His wheedling is unfairly effective.

“I was trying to-”

But then you clam up. It’ll sound silly to say it out loud, especially considering your lack of success. Peter waits a moment, watching you expectantly.

“You were trying to…?” he repeats, when it becomes clear that you aren’t going to continue.

You know you can trust Peter. He might be inclined to use his powers for pranks, but he’s not the sort of person who’d mock you for your shortcomings. And he wouldn’t keep asking if he didn’t actually care to hear the answer. You sigh, gritting your teeth.

“I was trying to levitate,” you mutter.

Peter lets out an impressed whistle. “Levitation, huh? You’re swinging for the fences.”

“I’m telekinetic,” you say. “Logically speaking, if I telekinetically push against the ground, it should push me into the air. I mean, Mr. Lehnsherr can make himself levitate while only being able to control metal, right? I should be able to do this.”

Hank would be quick to point out that Mr. Lehnsherr is able to levitate by manipulating the earth’s magnetic field rather than by manipulating metal itself, but that’s hardly the point. And-

And now Peter’s laughing. You cross your arms, nonplussed.

“It’s not funny!”

“No, I know,” he says, “I’m not laughing at that. What’s funny is hearing you call him ‘Mr. Lehnsherr.’ Why do you always do that?”

“It’s not like I go around calling the professor ‘Charles,’” you argue. You feel a little disrespectful even saying it hypothetically.

“Well, sure. ‘Professor’ is his title. But you don’t call Hank ‘Mr. McCoy.’”

“That’s different,” you protest. “I can’t call my best friend’s dad by his first name. It’d be too weird!”

There’s a second of silence as you both process what you’d just said.

Sure, Peter is your closest friend, but you’d never said it in so many words. Did it sound silly? Did it make things weird? Well, it’s too late to take it back now. Peter grins at you, and he speaks before you can try to backpedal.

“Alright, then as your best friend, I’m gonna give you some advice. You know what your problem is?” he says, wagging a finger at you. “You get stuck in your head and psych yourself out all the time. Here – I got an idea.”

Peter reaches down to the Discman clipped to his belt and presses play, then skips ahead a few tracks. He settles one of his ever-present headphones onto his ear, and offers the other to you.

You hesitate.

“I’m going somewhere with this. I promise,” he says. He raises his eyebrows inquiringly, and extends his hand again.

Peter smiles as you finally take the headphone and place it over your ear.

“Now,” he says, “Just take a second and listen. Relax. Breathe.”

Well, he might know what he’s talking about. You’ve noticed that live music is one of the few things that can get him to voluntarily stay in one place. You exhale, closing your eyes.

‘You got me wrapped around your finger,

Do you have to let it linger?

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?’

You’d first met Peter a few weeks after you’d started working here at the school. One morning, this silver-haired young man with pretty, dark eyes and a charming grin had appeared at your door, introducing himself as Peter Maximoff.

That in itself wasn’t strange. You hadn’t gone more than a day without someone stopping by the cottage to check on you, or just to talk. You were never certain, but you had a hunch those visits were at the behest of Professor Xavier.

Peter, on the other hand? You’re pretty sure his visit was prompted by the scent of freshly baked strawberry pie emanating from the cottage’s tiny kitchen.

Peter was one of your most frequent visitors after that. He’s always happy to taste-test any and all baked goods you’d whip up. He’s good company, and easy to talk to. And if there are days that you don’t feel much like talking yourself, he’s easy to listen to.

Drifting back out of your reverie, you open your eyes to see Peter watching you. He smiles.

“Little better?”

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Thanks. It’s just… I’m so bad at this.”

Peter frowns, confused. “Bad at what?”

“This. All of it.” You gesture vaguely at your hands, and then at yourself, trying to indicate your own mutant abilities. “People hear I work at Xavier’s school, and they expect me to be like the Professor, or like Jean, or you.”

“Huh. Not seeing the common thread there. What do you mean, like me?”

“Like… Well, you know – exceptional. Important. But I’m not, and I never have been. You can do such incredible things, and I struggle more than half of the students. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. Maybe I’d be better off back out there, pretending to be normal, instead of here, pretending that I belong.”

Peter’s face had lit up for a moment at hearing you call him exceptional, but the smile faded as you’d gone on. Now he looks frustrated, and almost sad, but he quickly straightens up and looks you earnestly in the eyes.

“So you’re not as powerful as Jean or the professor. So what? That doesn’t mean you’ll never get any stronger than you are now. And if you wanna talk about me, well,” Peter scoffs and spreads his arms self-deprecatingly, “I started out as a punk-ass shoplifter.”

You laugh involuntarily. He’s so blunt and matter-of-fact about it that you can’t help it. Peter seems to take your reaction as encouragement.

“And then I met the professor, and Hank, and Mystique,” he says. “And I came here. Look how much has changed for me since then.”

You shake your head. “That’s different.”

Peter cuts you off.

“Listen,” he says. He steps closer, taking your hands in his. “Of course it’s different. You’re not me, and I’m not you. But don’t think for a second that you don’t belong here, because you do. And I… I want you to stay.”

Still moving at a normal pace – which seems oddly slow for him – Peter reaches up and gently brushes your hair behind your ear.

As his hand lingers, you lean your head against it ever so slightly before you realize what you’re doing. Peter hesitates for a second, and then that grin of his returns.

Slowly, still, he steps closer to you again, wrapping an arm around your waist, leaning in until his face is an inch from yours. He pauses.

“May I?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless.

And then he pulls you close, and your hand settles against the nape of his neck, resting against his soft silver hair, and all you can think is how long you’d been wishing that he’d kiss you. But Peter is a flirt with everyone, right? It’s part of his charm. You didn’t want to let yourself think that you were special to him at all.

But here he is – seeking out your company, kissing you in the gardens like the silly romantic that he is – and just for a moment it seems like everything else is drifting away.

Peter pulls back slowly.

“See, what’d I tell you? The second you stop psyching yourself out, you’re a natural.” Peter grins in response to your puzzled expression. “Just, y’know, don’t look down.”

“What do you mean, don’t l-”

And at this moment you realize that your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. You’re floating, effortlessly, ten feet in the air with Peter in your arms.

Your heart lurches in an instant of panic, but between the music in your ear and Peter leaning in for a second kiss, you don’t lose control.

In fact, you find that you’ve gained it. In your mind, you press down experimentally, lifting the pair of you a foot or two higher, before gently lowering yourself down until you’re once again standing on the ground.

Peter opens his mouth to speak, and then seems to catch sight of something behind you.

“Oh, hey, Professor,” he says. “How long have you been there?”

Peter manages to keep an arm wrapped casually around your shoulders you whirl around to see Professor Xavier at the end of the hedgerow, watching you with an amused expression.

“Not long,” he says.

Damn it, you can feel your face going beet red. Peter coughs awkwardly, hurrying on to answer a question the professor hadn’t asked.

“We were just doing some, uh…” he catches your eye for a second, “Tutoring.”

You fight the urge to facepalm. Why couldn’t you have invisibility powers instead?

“A unique approach,” says the professor. “Peter, aren’t you supposed to be assisting with a chemistry lecture this afternoon?”

Peter grins.

“What, are you worried that I’m gonna be late? Me?” He leans back in to give you a peck on the cheek. “Bye.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with Professor Xavier. You’re scrambling to figure out how best to politely make your exit when the professor speaks.

“It’s lovely weather out here,” he says. “Why don’t you walk with me for a bit?”

“Well, I… Uh… Okay.”

You fall in step beside his wheelchair, and the two of you go in silence.

Forget invisibility. At this moment, you wish that you were telepathic. That way, you’d be able to block the professor from experiencing the secondhand awkwardness of your flustered thoughts.

As you’re stewing, you hear him chuckle.

“I run a school full of teenagers, you know,” he says. “That was hardly a shocking tryst.”

That’s a fair point.

“It’s also hardly the sort of thing you want your boss to walk in on,” you say. Though the initial embarrassment has faded, you still feel a little nervous.

You’ve always been a bit in awe of Professor Xavier. He’s a kind man, and he has a knack for putting people at ease. But part of you worries about your lack of progress, and the possibility that others might think it reflects badly on him. You don’t want to disappoint him like that.

“I imagine you wonder, sometimes,” says the professor at length, “Why I don’t just use my own abilities to unlock yours.”

Your silence speaks volumes. He’s not wrong, but you don’t want to admit to it in so many words. The professor smiles faintly, and continues.

“I’ve seen what happens when someone unlocks the full extent of a mutant’s abilities in an instant. The results are… unpleasant.”

You don’t have to be psychic to know what he’s referring to. Four years ago, in Cairo, a being that the news had dubbed Apocalypse and his four power-enhanced lackeys nearly destroyed human civilization. It’s not surprising that the professor would be leery of using such tactics himself, and you know he’s right.

“And even if that wasn’t the case,” he says, “I’d be taking away your opportunity to grow into them on your own. And with that, there’s a risk that you might never fully understand and appreciate them, or yourself.”

You know he’s right, again, but it doesn’t reassure you very much.

“To be honest, Professor,” you say, “I don’t think I’ve grown at all so far. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Maybe I’m too old to start learning these things.”

“Nonsense.” The professor’s tone is a little stern, but still gentle. “You know, in many ways, you’re very much the opposite of someone like myself. While I was overwhelmed by powers I couldn’t control, you struggle to access a power that constantly eludes you. You know it’s there, just out of reach – like words to a song you can’t quite remember.”

You sigh, turning your gaze to the ground. This is something you hardly need to be reminded of. Still, it’s a little bit reassuring that he can understand it without you having to fumble around trying to explain it. But what he says next catches you off-guard.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’ve been neglecting you.”

Surprised, you look over at the professor. His brows are furrowed, and there’s something like regret in his eyes. You hurry to contradict him.

“You haven’t!” you say. “You’ve got so many things to worry about already. If it’s not a crisis, it’s a catastrophe – and running the school on top of that? That all takes precedence; I understand that.”

You understand, and you don’t mind. Much. The professor shakes his head.

“It’s been relatively peaceful here for some time. You’re not a child, but you’re still my student, and I’ve neglected to see to your training. For that, you must let me apologize, and let me promise to make up for lost time. But in return, I’d like you to promise me something, as well.”

“Of course,” you say, mystified, “But… promise you what, exactly?”

“This school isn’t simply a place of academic learning,” he says. “It’s a place for people like us to find one another. Though our lives and experiences may be different, we give ourselves the chance to connect with each other, to learn from each other.”

You’re starting to get his drift. “So… I’ve been neglecting my studies on that front, is that right?”

The professor nods, but you don’t see disappointment in his expression – merely patience.

“You have,” he says. “You believe that you’re weak, and because you’re ashamed of that weakness, you hide away and keep to yourself, but that only discourages you more. But if you stop running from yourself – if you were to reach back when someone reaches out to you…”

“You mean, like… with Peter? Just now?” You sound silly even to your own ears. Your awkwardness seems to amuse the professor.

“I don’t mean that exact method, specifically,” he says, biting back a smile, “But, yes. Perhaps a friendship like his is exactly the encouragement you need.”

You fall silent again, considering this. It’s true; you haven’t mentioned your doubts and frustrations to anyone before now. You’d honestly expected to feel worse about opening up to someone, to feel the need to double-down on your self-sufficient attitude to compensate for any vulnerability.

But you don’t feel that way. You’re still a little hesitant, sure, and you don’t expect that’s going to go away anytime soon. Still… this wasn’t the catastrophic moment of failure you’d anticipated. Peter didn’t laugh at you, or dismiss your feelings. He stuck by you and tried to help. You hadn’t expected that. It’s nice.

“I know you feel that you should be doing more,” says the professor, “But you must understand, what we’re working towards is a time when mutants don’t have to justify their existence through acts of dangerous heroism. What I hope for is a time when our kind is free to simply exist, using our skills to better our communities, our world, and ourselves, just like any other human being.”

You’re not sure how to describe it, but sometimes there’s something about the professor that’s so reassuringly, resolutely hopeful that it makes everything seem a little less dire.

“I know,” you say, smiling faintly, “But I still do want to help.”

“You are helping,” he insists, “Or haven’t you noticed how more and more students come out to the gardens to study?”

Come to think of it, you have noticed that. When you’d started working here, you could go weeks without seeing a soul outside, and now the garden is almost a more popular destination than the library.

“See, I knew it was a good idea to update the patio furniture,” you say. “Those old iron chairs are beautiful, but so uncomfortable to sit on for more than ten minutes at a-”

You break off, looking curiously at the professor, who’s smiling as he shakes his head.

“They don’t come out here for the furniture. They come out here to see you.”

You blink, surprised. That can’t be right. Or…

You think back to your first year working at the school. The students would gather on the grassy areas of the grounds, but generally not in the gardens themselves. You figured this had something to do with the rather austere layout and, after getting the professor’s blessing, you began incorporating more cottage-garden style flowers. It’d brightened the place up considerably.

One afternoon, as you were hauling wheelbarrowfuls of mulch, you came across one of the younger students. Said student literally had steam pouring from her ears as she stared at the schoolwork spread out on the bench beside her.

If only to prevent anything from catching fire, you stopped and asked her what she was working on. It was history homework, and she was having trouble memorizing the names of the important figures in the era.

Now, you may not be a particularly strong mutant, but you were usually good at school. You sat down with the girl and helped her figure out a mnemonic that made sense to her.

You saw the girl in the gardens frequently after that, and sometimes her friends would join her, and they’d flag you down to tell you what they were learning about. The gardens became a favorite study spot for older students, too.

You’d never really thought about it before now, but every time the students would try to catch your attention, it was to talk through a concept they were struggling with. Huh…

“You have a knack for thinking about things from a different angle,” the professor goes on. “Are you quite certain you don’t want to teach?”

You get the feeling he’s only half-serious, and you laugh. “Oh, I’d be useless trying to put together a curriculum. I think I’d better stick to giving freelance advice.”

“Fair enough. I can tell you this much,” says the professor, “There’s much more in you than you know yet. And, for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Peter so content to pace himself in everyday life.”

Yup, you’re blushing again. You can feel it.

You’ve circled back around to the doors. To his credit, the professor seems to understand that he’s given you enough to think about for one day, and takes his leave.

“Well, it was a lovely afternoon for a turn around the gardens,” he says, “I noticed that the zinnias are getting ready to bloom. Might I trouble you to bring some in for my study this week? They always seem to brighten up the place.”

“Absolutely, sir,” you say. “And, Professor? Thank you.”

The professor smiles, and bids you good afternoon.

As you walk away from the mansion, your thoughts turn back to Peter, and you smile to yourself. You know exactly what your next baking project is going to be: a chocolate cake with real buttercream frosting – Peter’s favorite.

And suddenly, your arms are held out in front of you. In your hands is a little potted tea rose plant – the sort you’d find at a grocery store’s floral department. There’s a note stuck amongst the leaves, written in slanted, hurried-looking script:

Figured you’d prefer something that lasts a little longer than a bouquet. See you tonight, maybe? <3 Peter

He really is sweet. Ridiculous, but sweet. If you hurry to finish the last of your work, you’ll have just enough time to bake that cake before evening.

You can picture yourself putting the finishing touches on the frosting, only to blink and find that a piece of cake is missing, and to turn around and find Peter sitting on your couch, already halfway through the slice.

The thought makes you smile again. Carefully hugging the little rose to your chest, you hurry along.

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #x men fanfiction #peter maximoff fluff #am i implying that peter maximoff listens to the cranberries? yes. yes i am.#I know it doesn’t quite fit with the timeline #but in my defense - multiverse #also - i’ve been thinking of this as an alternate version of ‘you’ from andante #because i’ve been having fun with this hypothetical mutant character XP #just shouting into the void #peter maximoff fanfiction

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ships-bynoa · 3 years ago

Text

The Titans are almost back, bitches. aka 3x06

Guys, literally every time the titans are together-or even paired up-the episode gets ten times better, but in 6 episodes there is simply not enough Kory and Gar. I can easily forget that when I’m basking in the episode they are in, especially when they’re giving us family dynamics.

Kory:

“You’re not mad that I left. You’re mad I came back.” Kory’s face tells us Blackfire is right on the money, and who would know her better than her sister?

So, Kory, oh boy. Our girl is on edge. She is slowly unraveling and is super vulnerable and raw with Kom around and little sister is going to exploit it and her guilt, which I think she’s carrying a lot of. So far their dynamic has been fascinating because there’s so much to read between them and so many accusations being flung back and forth, from both. From Kory; you sense guilt and even contempt and from Kom there’s envy and resentment, but also there’s a sense of idealization for her older sister, too, which of course, with younger siblings, there always is an element of that. And as an older sibling, there is always an unspoken and sometimes spoken responsibility placed on them for their younger siblings. Parents often don’t realize it, but they can create a lot of tension within siblingships by assigning roles.

They remember home and family very differently, which is often the case, too. Kom was often thrown in the pit and to that, Kory attributes her sister’s constant rebellion as the reason, and yet, Kory herself was a bit of a rule breaker, sleeping with her guard, Fiddei.

Kory was being suffocated by the laws and customs of her home planet; one could say she rebelled by going on a mission, to escape her duties. Home did neither of them any favors because while one rebelled because she did not fit in, the one who did fit in was dying inside, surrounded by little robots and becoming one herself. Being told what to eat, wear and who to love or be friends with is yikes.

I was thinking Kom began her game of manipulation in the bunker, but she really started before that when she sent Fiddei to bring Kory home when she probably intended to kill him all along. After all she would’ve castrated him if she’d had the chance to for sleeping with Kory in the first place. Shortly after Fiddei’s death, Kory flamed out. No powers. Emotionally wrung out from the news her family was dead and now the culprit is here. These two know each other very well and know exactly how to get underneath each other’s skin. Right now Kom is getting underneath Kory’s and our girl is losing patience fast.

I’m wondering when exactly Dick will tune into Kory’s anxiety-ridden state and step in to support.

Ultimately, I just want to see what truly happened to the girls on their planet and how we have the versions we have now. Like, Kory said to Rachel, “No one is born good or bad, we are defined by our choices.” I get the feeling Kory has given Kom so many chances to make a different choice and has become disillusioned, meanwhile Kom believes nothing she does will give her the respect she feels she deserves anyway, so she may as well blow shit up, figuratively and literally. At least then she’ll have Kory’s attention.

Gar:

Gar losing it on Dick was so cathartic and yet he could’ve gone much further, considering Dick abandoned him last season to go jail and hallucinate Bruce. It ultimately led to Gar (and Conner) being kidnapped and experimented on by Mercy. It’s actually all the adults fault this happened, but as the leader promoting his family everywhere he goes, he needs to keep his eye on the ball. He would know if he spent five minutes at home with them that Gar is struggling. Last season Gar was #OperationSaveTitans and this season he’s #ThisFamilyIsDying. He’s doing what the adults should be doing, or at least leading the charge on it. He’s the glue, but who will hold him together?

He’s carrying too much emotional responsibility and Dick’s dismissal, because he is fully locked into Gotham and being Batman, makes me mad. Get your head in the game, Grayson. Gotham is going to eat your family while you retread the nostalgic steps of your past.

We all know Dick’s not good at expressing himself emotionally, though he’s usually forced to express something when talking to or being confronted by Kory, so I was proud of him for giving Gar the floor to speak. I just wish Gar spoke about himself, but then again, he needs more time and consistent offers to be heard. I’m happy Dick followed up the conversation up with a bonding/training session. There was definitely pride in Dick’s face because Gar really has come a long way in this group, but he needs MORE SCREEN TIME. I’d like to see the two of them out in the field together the way we’ve seen Kory this season with Gar and Conner.

I wonder if Gar losing control is the start of all his trauma bubbling up to the surface, will being in Gotham, hunting down a friend be too much?

As a side, has the CGI tiger face gotten worse?

Kom (and Conner):

First thing’s first, what music are we thinking Kom listens to? Probably the kind of music she can break your tailbone to, like, Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole and Jay Z, or Prince, Jimmy Hendrix, Stevie Nicks and Led Zeppelin? Rihanna?

Kom is absolutely a villain this season and if she isn’t, what a waste that’ll be. A mastermind at mind games (see, her picking up the chess piece), who is going to drum up Kory’s paranoia and anxiety around her being there. Trying to kill her suspicion by guilt tripping her while simultaneously being a do good-er to the group, feigning interest in helping the Titans to earn her way in, a tip from our boy, Conner.

She says she wants acceptance and I believe that’s absolutely true, but she doesn’t know how to get that without using power, so she’ll continue to covet acceptance through and with power because according to Kory, she’s always been a climber. Add to that, being born the cursed child and the only royal member born without the gift of fire, something that differentiates them from the common folk, being too frail to participate in the same games as Kory, having a speech therapist be her only friend while being the object of ridicule and you have a villain origin story nicely set up.

I really enjoyed Conner and Kom’s exchange. The boy lit up when he spoke about seeing his family happy and it made me light up. He’s so genuine and has a big heart and Kom is going to take advantage of it, that’s not to say she won’t develop real feelings for him, but she can like him and still use him.

Conner’s “you have to earn your way into the family,” is perhaps an internal and personal struggle he has from sharing blood with Luthor. I think it may come from an insecure place because he was made a titan as soon as he woke up and no one questioned it, but as he’s only half of superman, he’s constantly trying to prove his usefulness for good, which losing Hank has rocked, leaving him vulnerable to Kom’s recognition for his otherness. Their otherness.

She gave us insight into her mind, but also she has likely seized an opportunity to use the vulnerability against Conner and to her favor by making him her kindred. Outcasts. Will she gain influence over him? He’s still young and learning, and trusting, too.

Her interest in him felt layered, ignoring the ugly customs of sex servants, she was also observing Kory’s relationships and ranking them in her sister’s life. Her being able to determine who may have Kory’s interest (which Kory gave away with her vulnerable display of worry over Dick’s welfare in front of Kom) will surely come into play at some point, right? After all, Kom did kill Kory’s last lover/royal guard. This may be me projecting. LOL.

Romantically, I’m waiting to see how they play it before I decide if I like it or not, but so far, they have a nice chemistry. Friendly.

Dick (and Barbara) :

What a lovable dumb ass.

I was so happy Kory lost it on him and called him on his lone ranger shit, at least when it’s her, even when he’s being an idiot, he’s still listening. “Let’s go.” and I thought it was hilarious that he tried explaining himself, but when Gar called him out, he got all huffy with, “Excuse me, young man.”

Gar asking Kory not to have words with Barbara over Dick getting shot was so funny because Dick’s face seemed to ask the same when she asked how it happened. We love a protective Kory. I’ll be looking at him when it’s his turn to reciprocate.

I don’t like him dismissing their concerns about his personal safety and how it affects them, it’s like he’s learned nothing after running off alone to battle Trigon, or rather has unlearned his lessons of S2. I’d like to see some more permanent emotional growth from him by this season’s end. In his current state, he’s not an exuding leader. He can’t be when he’s still wrapped up in Bruce and all things Gotham. He’s not tuned into Kory’s anxiety, or Conner’s grief and insecurity, or Gar’s emotional burden.

He’s started making it up to him, but he has much to do in taking Gar’s concerns and emotional needs seriously.

I’m not even going to try and work out the timeline between Barbara and Dick and Dick and old Titans in San Fran and S1. But it doesn’t bode well that Dick’s dream with Barbara ended in a nightmare.

I wish they’d never did the whole Dick and Dawn relationship in S2 because they’re basically repeating some of the beats in showing us how they don’t work as a couple, only his relationship with Babs makes a lot more sense even though I don't care. Dick has unfinished business with that relationship, Bruce and Gotham and I can only hope he’s wrapped it up for good by this season’s end. I want to see relaxed, smiling and happy Dick in THE PRESENT. I still Babs will be the one to notice and point out Dick's feelings for Kory.

Barbara (outside of Dick) is being downplayed a little, no? Dismissing Dick’s suspicions about Jason when he arrived, showing no knowledge of Jason’s visits to Crane and then taking the bait and moving Crane after he got a light beat down. A commissioner who was also a very capable vigilante is tricked by a recording and goes to meet “Bruce” on her own. I really enjoyed that she could hold her own and the fight scene was really good, but it was a bit baffling that she fell for that ruse. So far, she’s not entirely good at her job.

Dick’s a distraction in his own right and her feelings clearly get in the way, which is why she keeps asking him to leave the precinct and Gotham; because she’s pining a fantasy and he’s ruining it. Lastly, I really like the way Savannah plays Barbara.

Why’d they do that to Tim?? :(

Overall, it was a better episode and I enjoyed it more than latter episodes, but they’re not quite there yet for me. I’m still waiting for Team Titans.

#dc titans #kory anders #koriand'r #stafire #gar logan #beast boy #dick grayson #nightwing #conner kent #superboy #noa posts

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bumblingbunny · 3 years ago

Text

Murder Mystery Results

Hey guys! I have finally put together the results from the poll and it’s led me to two different murder mystery ideas:

Idea 1

Years ago, a massacre occurred at a certain remote manor house. Since then, anyone who’s tried to stay there has claimed that it’s haunted. Skip to the present day, a group has been assembled to make a documentary on the history of the house and it’s hauntings. This group of strangers is made up of psychics, mediums, ghost hunters and the small tech crew tasked with filming it. However, things immediately don’t seem right with the producer never showing up. Then the murders start.

This idea would follow a single main character designed by the audience, and would feature some spooky elements along with voting for the big story moments.

Idea 2

A little less fleshed out, but this idea focuses on a cast made up of strangers and small friend groups, all of whom have gather at a ski resort to enjoy the winter weather. However a blizzard blow through trapping them there - and it doesn’t take long for the murder to seize this opportunity. This story would loop through the days, with each one following a different character. As for spooky elements, I think there would be a local legend for the characters to learn about. I still need to figure out how’d I do the voting moments for this one, so that they’re mixed throughout the story and not just during the first loop.

For now, I think I’m going to try work on idea 1. It’s a little easier to fit in certain elements, and my ideas for it are more defined at the moment. (However if you guys prefer idea 2, leave me a comment to let me know!)

Also, I WILL be making a perchance random generator to share soon! :D Just need to find the time and remind myself how to do it. It will also be featuring some awesome ideas from ninnin, Jex, The Magistra, SunshineNinja and a couple of nonnies!

Finally, I know I say it a lot, but I really appreciate everyone who took a moment to vote. I had so much fun and have some great ideas to play around with now! If you’d like to see the breakdown of votes, as well as my thoughts, you can find that all under the cut.

1. Which isolation location should this story take place in?

Haunted Mansion: 12

Snowed-in Ski Resort: 11

Remote Manor House: 10

Closed-Down Summer Camp: 10

Space/Ship: 3

Island: 2

New Suggestions: Abandoned Cabin, Abandoned City, Cruise Ship

This turned out a lot closer than I thought it would! About halfway through the voting only the Haunted Mansion and Remote Manor House had a significant amount of votes. The Ski Resort and Summer Camp only started gaining votes after I originally came up with the idea of the Haunted Manor House full of Mediums and Ghost Hunters - so I wanted to come up with another idea using one of them.

Also I LOVE the ideas you guys suggested! They’re so good!!

2. How Should the characters know each other?

Strangers: 20

Small Friend Groups: 11

Work/Club members: 8

Family members: 7

New Suggestions: All know the host or guest of honor, “Strangers” with a secret connection, Strangers brought together for an internet or UrbEx meetup, a mix of Strangers and friend/family groups

A group of strangers was the clear winner here with a couple variations on it offered. Am I using one of them for my plans? Who knows? You’ll have to wait and see! :)

3. How should the story be told?

Story follows a main character designed by the readers: 14

Days repeat with each loop focusing on a different character: 14

Linear storytelling focusing on wherever the action is: 10

Story skips between 2 timelines: 9

Days repeat with events changing each time: 9

Story is told in reverse or with the days mixed up: 3

My favorite two options won! Which doesn’t make choosing any easier... The main character one was in the lead at the start though, so my first idea was based on that and I fit the characters one into the second idea.

4. How MUCH murder should there be?

Somewhere around 2-4 spread throughout the story: 20

The murderer is trying/succeeding at killing everyone: 16

A single murder that the story focuses on: 7

New Suggestions: Dealer’s choice, Anything can happen! Is it the murderer or the characters making dumb choices? Who knows?

Look at all of that murder. You guys are so chaotic - I love it. :)

5. How happy should the ending be? (From As Happy as Possible to Break Our Hearts)

Nice and balanced results! Although I love that there are more votes for break our hearts than as happy as possible.

6. How do you feel about supernatural elements?

Maybe a little would be fun: 15

Make everything spooky: 14

No thanks: 7

New Suggestion: A previous rumor or haunting adds to the chaos and causes characters to make stupid decisions

Perfect results for the spooky season! I promise though that this won’t interfere with the clues or trying to figure out the murderer. I’ve been burned before with a “it can only be magic” solution - it’s so disappointing after you invest hours into a story.

7. Would you be interested in having audience interaction with polls to decide story elements?

Only for big story moments: 29

Regular polls every couple of days: 9

No thanks: 3

I was leaning towards voting for only big story moments, so I’m glad everyone seems to agree with it. One day I’d love to try the regular polls, but it’s a lot more work.

OTHER SUGGESTIONS:

“POSSIBLY allowing your audience to give you their OCs to use in the cast. It might be easier to populate the story and afford you an organically diverse set of characters.”

I would love this so much - everyone makes such pretty and unique sims and I always love getting them! However, using other people’s sims does add some pressure to get things done, which has sometimes stopped me from actually doing them. So at least for the first story, I’ll probably stick to just sims that I make. If I actually manage to finish it though, I’d be willing to try using audience OC’s for the second one!

“The cast should be varied in age”

Absolutely. The only thing I’m trying to figure out is what’s the minimum age a character should be. There’s not going to be any children, but I might allow older teens or just have the characters 18 or older. For some reason the idea of teens in this kind of situation doesn’t feel right to me - although a story focused on teens in a remote boarding school could be really fun.

A vote on whether the story is about Vanilla or Berry sims

I was originally thinking of making this story vanilla, but if enough people are interested in berry I could change that. Would you guys like to vote on this? It could be part of the main character creation poll.

#murder mystery poll #poll results #still don't know what to reblog this #also sorry it's so long #even before you reach the cut #I had a lot of fun thinking everything through though!#gotta start making some characters #and researching psychics and mediums #I know a bit more about ghost hunting from buzzfeed #and other shows

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celosiaa · 4 years ago

Note

hey friend!! i'm here with a drabble prompt (or just a Thought if you prefer!)!! you kNOW i love your jon with EDS/POTS headcanon, so possibly something with that in the canon timeline? i'm sure one of the things he was prescribed for pain after the worms was a muscle relaxer, which we have to be careful with. perhaps something where jon is having a bad enough day to take one (he usually doesn't at work) and some soft caretaking? it could be either an injury or preventative, for fluff! :)

thank you for the prompt my friend!!!! Got another transcript style one for everybody. I set this shortly after Jon returns to work, while Tim and Sasha are still out. His paranoia about Martin has not yet developed because I said so lol. Hope you enjoy!! <3

[CLICK]

JON: Statement ends. (pause) Are you alright?

STATEMENT-GIVER: (shaky) Y-yes, I—I think so.

JON: We will follow up on your statement just as soon as we have the capacity. As I’m sure you noticed on your way in, we’re a bit—short-staffed, at the moment.

STATEMENT-GIVER: I did notice, actually. Bit dead, I suppose.

JON: Yes, well—

[SOUNDS OF CHAIRS BEING PUSHED BACK AS THEY STAND]

JON: Bit of an—ah—

[HISS OF PAIN]

JON: (breathless) Bit of a long story.

STATEMENT-GIVER: You okay?

JON: Of course. My apologies.

[SOUND OF TWO PAIRS OF FOOTSTEPS, ONE ACCENTED ON EVERY OTHER STEP BY THE TAP OF A CANE]

[SOUND OF A DOOR SQUEAKING OPEN]

JON: (with effort) Can you—I’m very sorry, will you be able to find your way out?

STATEMENT-GIVER: (with light surprise) Oh.

JON: If you just take a left down the hall, you’ll see the lift that lets you straight out into the lobby.

STATEMENT-GIVER: (confused, awkward) Right. Erm—okay. Afternoon, then.

JON: (quietly) Afternoon.

[BRIEF SILENCE AS HER FOOTSTEPS FADE]

[JON SITS DOWN RATHER HEAVILY]

MARTIN: (worriedly) Hey, you okay? Do you—are you feeling faint?

JON: (through gritted teeth) No, no, I— (sigh) I’m fine.

[SOUND OF CHAIR BEING PUSHED BACK, FOOTSTEPS GETTING CLOSER]

MARTIN: Leg bothering you?

JON: (irritably) It’s fine. Just—

MARTIN: (pointedly) Jon.

[HE SIGHS]

JON: (quietly) I just—it’s seizing, a bit. Just need to take something for it.

MARTIN: (eager to help) Can I get it for you?

JON: You don’t have to—

MARTIN: Where is it?

JON: (almost defeated) Desk drawer. I-I mean—there’s a couple different ones in there. It’s cyclo—benzaprine? I think.

MARTIN: On it.

[SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS WALKING AWAY AS JON SIGHS]

[FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING]

MARTIN: Here you are. And your water bottle, too.

JON: Thank you, Martin.

[SOUND OF PILLS BEING SHAKEN FROM THE BOTTLE]

MARTIN: (worried) Hey, wait—isn’t that—isn’t that a muscle relaxant?

JON: (shocked) What?

MARTIN: I just didn’t—erm—I just didn’t think it was good to take those. With EDS, I mean.

[BRIEF SILENCE]

JON: (incredulously—perhaps suspiciously) How did you know that?

MARTIN: (stammering quickly, with an audible blush) OH! Erm, sorry, I was just—I sort of got interested? I guess? I’ve been doing some research, I-I didn’t mean to overstep, I just—I just—

JON: (concerned) Good lord. Take a breath, please.

MARTIN: R-right!

[HE BREATHES IN AND OUT SHALLOWLY]

MARTIN: Right, sorry.

[SOUND OF JON SWALLOWING THE PILLS WITH A SIP OF WATER]

[FEET SHUFFLING NERVOUSLY ON THE FLOOR]

[JON SIGHS]

JON: It’s fine, Martin. I’m taking a lower dose to be safe.

MARTIN: (relieved) Okay, good. That’s good.

[SMALL SILENCE]

MARTIN: (quietly) What can I do?

JON: What do you mean?

MARTIN: You’re—you’re hurting. Is there anything I can do?

JON: (exasperated) Martin, you don’t— (sigh) —you know this wasn’t your fault, right? That I got hurt. It’s no one’s—

MARTIN: (interrupting) This isn’t out of guilt, Jon. I just—well. I just worry.

JON: You don’t need to—

MARTIN: (interrupting) I just want you to get home safely. That’s all.

JON: Well. You don’t need to worry.

[POORLY-MASKED GRUNT OF PAIN AS HE STANDS]

JON: I’m fine.

MARTIN: (worried) Jon—

JON: (back to annoying professionalism) Just focus on your work, Martin.

[SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS AS JON WALKS AWAY]

MARTIN: (under his breath) Like hell I will.

[CLICK OFF]

[PAUSE]

[CLICK ON]

MARTIN: Jon? Hey, Jon.

[JON LETS OUT A MUFFLED PROTEST AT BEING DISTURBED]

[FABRIC RUSTLES AS HE IS SHAKEN LIGHTLY]

MARTIN: You with me?

JON: (very bleary, slurred) M’tin?

MARTIN: Yeah. A little groggy, I see.

[JON LETS OUT A LONG GROAN]

MARTIN: I think—I think you ought to go home, Jon. Seems like the meds have gotten to you.

JON: (unconvincingly) I’m fine.

MARTIN: Have you taken these before? Or was this the first time?

JON: (still bleary) Erm—first time. Didn’t—god.

[PAUSE AS HE TAKES A DEEP BREATH]

[FABRIC RUSTLES AS MARTIN RUBS A HAND OVER HIS BACK]

MARTIN: (soothingly) Alright. I’ll call you a cab, okay? Just lean on me—I’ll help you up.

[FABRIC RUSTLES AS THEY START TO MOVE]

JON: (gasp) Wait wait wait—

[MOVEMENT AS HE IS SET BACK DOWN]

MARTIN: (very worried) What is it? What’s wrong?

JON: (confused, bit panicky) I think—everything just feels so—loose. Can you—would you get—

MARTIN: Where are they?

JON: Cabinet. Knee and ankle.

MARTIN: Got it.

[SOUND OF CABINETS BEING RIFLED THROUGH AS MARTIN SEARCHES FOR THE BRACES]

[LONG SIGH FROM JON AS HE LEANS OVER HIS DESK]

JON: (shakily) God damn it.

MARTIN: (worried) You alright?

JON: (sigh) Dizzy.

MARTIN: From—from the meds, or…?

JON: (snappy) I don’t. Know.

MARTIN: (intentionally quiet, calm) Right. Sorry.

[SILENCE AS JON BREATHES DEEPLY]

[SOUND OF CABINET DOORS CLOSING AND FOOTSTEPS CROSSING THE ROOM]

MARTIN: Here. Do you want me to help you with them?

JON: (sigh) M’sorry, Martin.

MARTIN: (soft) It’s okay.

[SOUND OF SHOES BEING REMOVED]

[FABRIC RUSTLES AS MARTIN KNEELS TO SLIP THE KNEE BRACES ON]

[SOUND OF VELCRO AS JON TIGHTENS THEM]

JON: I’ll—I’ll do these, if you could do the ankle ones.

MARTIN: Got it.

[SILENCE AND VELCROING]

[MARTIN SLIPS HIS SHOES BACK ON]

MARTIN: Feel okay? Still dizzy?

JON: A bit. Need to be careful.

MARTIN: Right. (audible puffing of chest) Well, I’ve got you, so don’t worry. Here we go then—

[SOUND OF MOVEMENT AS HE HELPS JON TO STAND]

[SOUND OF CANE TAPPING ONCE ON THE FLOOR AS MARTIN HANDS IT TO HIM]

MARTIN: Okay? Steady?

JON: (quietly) Okay.

MARTIN: Slow as you need.

[SOUND OF TWO PAIRS OF FOOTSTEPS, BOTH SLOW, ONE A BIT STAGGERING]

[BRIEF SILENCE]

MARTIN: (worried) Jon, maybe—maybe you should come back to my place, you know? Or I could go to yours. Just to make sure.

JON: (focused on walking) …what?

MARTIN: (nervous stammering) I won’t be any trouble. I-I’ll just make you some tea, and—and make sure you’re breathing, alright? Until the meds wear off. That’s all.

[SILENCE AS THEY KEEP WALKING]

MARTIN: Oh, watch—

JON: (overlapping) Oh—

[SHUFFLING FOOTSTEPS AS THEY MANEUVER IT AROUND THE OBSTACLE]

MARTIN: Ooh, alright, there we are. Close one.

[BRIEF SILENCE]

JON: (lowly) Thank you, Martin. That would—that’s very kind.

MARTIN: (he’s just been told he’s going to Disneyworld) OH! Oh, it’s no trouble. Really.

JON: It is. And I’m thanking you for it.

MARTIN: (small laugh) Well…you’re welcome, then, I guess. Just so long as you don’t take these meds again, eh?

[JON CHUCKLES LIGHTLY]

[CLICK]

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma fanfic #jonmartin #hurt/comfort #my writing

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kyber-crystal · 5 years ago

Text

Set Up

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: ~3.3k

Summary: In which the Avengers are relentless in their attempts to get you and Steve together. If this means going great lengths such as sending you off on a mission-disguised romantic getaway to make you realize your feelings for one another, they’ll seize the chance at the very moment it’s presented to them.

Warnings: None. Just tooth-rotting fluff bc I’ve really been needing it ahaha

A/N: Set in an AU 2017 timeline in which they reunite a year after the whole Accords situation so that everyone’s happy :)

"Rogers. Parasite. Stop watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine and get up, you need to get to the meeting room ASAP," Tony stated.

"Says the one who leeches off my granola bar supply," you grumbled as you shot him a death glare. "You've been doing this to me since I was a toddler. A helpless, two-year old against a 16 year-old demon always hungry for everyone's food but his own."

"Still holding the Full House cereal incident against me? Geez, woman, do you ever release your grudges against anyone," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Now come on, let's go."

Exchanging a confused look with Steve, you stood up and followed Tony down the hallway to the meeting room, where Fury was with the rest of the team, waiting.

"Captain Rogers, Agent Y/N," Fury nodded curtly. "I presume you know what's going on?"

"No, sir."

"I need you two to track down a group of mercenaries in downtown Tokyo. You'll be flown out commercially so you can maintain a low profile. The whole process should take no longer than ten days," he explained as Natasha handed him the printed out flight details. "Further information will be given to you upon arrival."

"If it's just the two of us, then why is everyone here?" you pointed out.

"Barton and Maximoff will be checking in with you regularly; and if backup is necessary, I will fly one of them out to meet you. If you don't have any more questions, this meeting is now dismissed. You'll be departing late tonight so if I were you, I'd get to packing right about now."

...

Soon enough you were all packed and ready to go. Because you were too lazy to reach back into your suitcase and grab a sweatshirt, you took Steve's Dodgers hoodie and slipped it on, along with a pair of your favorite sweatpants.

"See you in ten days, okay?" Natasha pulled you in for a tight hug. "Make sure to keep Rogers company, it's a long flight. This is also the perfect opportunity to grow closer...literally."

"Oh shut up, Nat," you scoffed. "We're not...you know."

"Sure you aren't."

"Tony, why don't you get some good rest for once," you turned to your brother, "alright?"

"As long as you admit you're in love with Capsicle," he whispered into your ear.

"I can't admit what's not true."

"Yeah yeah, I can't understand bullshit."

"Tony."

"Y/N," he mocked. "Anyway. Have a safe trip, don't die, yada yada yada."

"Yeah yeah, got it."

A few more rounds of goodbyes later, you and Steve were in the elevator with your luggage, heading down to where Phil was waiting to drive you to the airport.

Your flight was scheduled to take off at 1:45 in the morning, and it was close to 11 p.m when you arrived.

"Your tickets, please," the lady asked as you were about to board the plane. You took them out from your purse and handed them over to her. "Thank you."

"How long's the flight again?"

"Uh...about 14 hours. Pretty long," you replied, as you walked down the aisles, looking at the overhead letters for your seat. "24A, 24B...there we go. Wait, have you been to Japan before?"

"No, I haven't."

"You're gonna love it. They have the best, I tell you, best ramen, and curry, hands down. When Nat, Wanda, and I went on our girls' vacation last spring we wouldn't stop eating for two days straight. I know we're tracking down cold-blooded killers and all, but, it won't hurt to let loose a little, you know?"

"Yeah, definitely," Steve couldn't help but smile at how happy you looked while speaking. "You gotta be our tour guide. I'm trusting you'll lead us to the best ramen hotspots?"

"Oh yeah, I will."

After putting your things into the overhead bins, you settled into your seats. The armrest between you could be lifted convert the seats into a double bed, you quickly found out.

Shortly after taking off you felt yourself grow rather tired. Noticing your sleepiness, Steve raised the armrest and pressed the button to make the seats recline backwards, your head immediately falling against his broad chest. He smiled again, brushing stray hairs away from your forehead before pulling the blanket over your bodies and falling asleep as well.

Little did either one of you know, you were being sent off to Japan for a completely different reason that had absolutely nothing to deal with tracking down mercenaries.

...

The smell of food wakes you up several hours later. You stretched your arms up and ran a hand through your hair as you sat up, adjusting your neck pillow.

"Hey uh, how long were we out for?" you asked, voice still thick with sleep. Steve was already awake, in the middle of watching a movie on his TV.

"4 hours. You knocked out for 5. It's time for lunch...or dinner?"

You tapped your screen a few times to pull up the map of your flight's route. "Right now it's 7:30 p.m. in Tokyo. We're arriving at 4:45 in the morning, so I'd say dinner."

"You sleep okay?"

"Hm? Yeah," you yawned, rubbing your eyes and adjusting the sleeves of Steve's hoodie. "You make a good pillow."

"No problem," he chuckled. You then turned to the flight attendant, who handed you your meals.

"Fancy," you nodded in approval as you passed Steve's tray over to him. "First class sure has its perks...oh yes, miso soup."

You binged your way through several episodes of Pretty Little Liars, I Love Lucy, and Star Wars: A New Hope together. Afterwards, you purchased Wi-Fi so you could update the team on your status.

CHATROOM - AVENGERS ASSEMBLE

Natasha: Morning, lovebirds. You guys in the air already?

You: Yeah, we're eating dinner right now. What time is it back home?

Tony: 6:45 a.m. Pulled an all-nighter binge-watching The Office.

Bucky: Totally worth losing an entire night's worth of good sleep.

Y/N: But I still don't get why we couldn't take the Quinjet?

Steve: ^

Rhodey: Do we tell them now, or wait until they land in Haneda?

Wanda: I'd say now.

Pietro: NO NO NO MAKE IT A SURPRISE

Steve: ...What's going on?

Tony: There's no mission.

Y/N: Wait, what? Then what are we going to Tokyo for?

Tony: I purchased a romantic ten-day vacation package so that you two will hopefully realize your feelings for each other along the way. Thank me later.

Y/N: SCREW YOU

Tony: Enjoy eating all the ramen you want!

Natasha: We're so good at matchmaking.

Thor: May I suggest a virtual high-five?

Peter: VIRTUAL HIGH-FIVE :))

Thor: :))

Y/N has left the chat.

Steve has left the chat.

Tony: They're gonna thank me when they see the penthouse I bought.

Tony has left the chat.

"Well, guess we're going on vacation. At least there's more opportunities to eating good food," Steve shrugged.

"Yup." You felt your heartbeat pick up speed at the thought of being alone with him, for ten days, in a country that was considered both futuristic and romantic at the same time. "Plenty of time to eat ramen and sushi."

Deep down, he was glad that there wasn't any mission. And so were you.

You took an hour-long catnap before waking up again and playing a few rounds of Uno with him, then stayed up for the rest of the flight. You both knew you'd regret doing so because of the 13-hour time difference between NYC and Tokyo, but you were too excited to care at that moment.

You were dazed and still slightly tired when you disembarked the aircraft, so you didn't have any energy to question how you and Steve ended up with your fingers intertwined. Besides, you liked the way it felt.

At close to 5 in the morning, Haneda International was relatively quiet and not too busy, so immigration didn't take long. You didn't have to worry about being bombarded by fans, aside from the occasional foreign fan recognizing you two and asking for a quick autograph or picture.

Since you wanted to explore the airport a bit before taking the train downtown, you looked around at the various shops.

Being a former spy alongside Natasha before joining the Avengers, you were fluent in multiple languages, including Japanese, Russian, French, Spanish, and German. And despite having developed the habit of always preparing for what was to come, you were completely shocked hearing a perfect Japanese sentence roll out of Steve's mouth as he spoke to the cashier.

You practically swooned at how smooth his voice sounded.

"Kore wa ikuradesu ka?" He gestured to one of the kokeshi dolls on display dressed in a sapphire colored kimono with cherry blossom embroidery. (How much is this?)

"3500 yen," the lady replied, "Hatsubai-chū, 3000. Kōnyū shimasu ka?" (On sale, 3000. Would you like to buy it?)

"Hai, kōnyū shimasu." (Yes, I'd like to buy it.)

"Kanojo no tame ni?" (For her?)

"Hai." (Yes.)

She nodded, and Steve handed over several folded bills from his wallet after she finished bagging the item.

"Arigato, gokigen'yō," he thanked her. (Thank you, have a nice day)

"Anata modesu," she smiled warmly. (You too)

"Holy crap, you didn't tell me you were fluent in Japanese, Rogers," you gaped as you walked out of the store together. "When did you have the time to learn it?"

"Back during the Pearl Harbor bombing, Buck and I were sent off with the 107th to Hawaii. Figured it'd be useful if we learned a few phrases."

"Few?" you raised an eyebrow at him. "What you just did back there, that was not just a few phrases! That was fluency!"

"What can I say, I pick up on language quickly," he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. He then handed you the bag with the doll inside. "Here, for you."

"You didn't have to—"

"Consider it my thank-you in advance for taking me to a good eatery," Steve explained.

After grabbing a quick breakfast of coffee and pastries, you took the elevator down to the train station.

You let out a sigh as you sat down, the cool air inside the train loosening the tension in your shoulders a bit. A short fifteen minutes later and you were back in one of your favorite cities in the world.

Steve took a picture of you as you were distracted from looking all around at the skyscrapers and people milling around, face lit up by all the bright and colorful signs, sending it to the chat.

Steve: Just arrived downtown. Got out of the airport half an hour ago.

Tony: Honeymooning Avengers, how cute

Sam: That's hot.

Steve: What time is it over there?

Wanda: We just finished eating lunch. You?

Steve: 7. Going to check into the penthouse. Talk to you guys later.

Wanda: Alright.

Sam: Have fun, lovebirdssssss

Steve has left the chat.

"So," he breathed out as he slipped his hand back into yours and you exited the station, "you ready to go check out where we're staying?"

"Yeah, definitely. You wanna take the subway again, or a taxi?"

"Subway. Actually..taxi. You sound nice when you speak in a foreign language."

"That's the only reason why you want to take a taxi?"

"Yeah, obviously," you scoffed. "I mean, why else?"

"Alright, if you insist," the super-soldier laughed.

A few minutes later, you'd called a taxi over and climbed into the backseat, strapping your seatbelts on.

"Ohayögozaimasu," (Good morning) the man greeted. "Ogenkidesuka?" (How are you) "Īdesu, anata wa?" Steve replied. (Good, and you?)

"Watashi mo jōzudesu. Doko ni ikitai?" (I am good, too. Where would you like to go?)

You looked at your phone, reading out the address of Tony's penthouse to the driver.

A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke up again. "Watashia wa anata-tachi o shitte imasu. Anata wa abenjãzudesu," the driver smiled, glancing at you two from the rearview mirror. (I know you two. You're the Avengers)

"Watashitachidesu," he returned his friendly grin. (We are!)

"Tōkyō ni kuru kikkake wa nanidesu ka?" (What made you come to Tokyo?)

"Chōdo kyūka no tame." (Just for vacation.)

"Nokori no taizai o o tanoshimi kudasai," he said as you were getting out of the car after paying. "Sayonara."

"Sayonara," you and Steve responded before closing the car door behind you.

"Wow," your jaw dropped as you took the elevator up, arriving at the top floor. "Tony actually bought...this...place?"

"Apparently," Steve shrugged, "we could come back and forth between here and the compound as often as we wanted."

The penthouse had a nice, dark aesthetic feel to it, with giant panoramic views of the entirety of Tokyo and modern furniture and spots of dimmed white lights in the ceiling to give off a relaxed vibe.

After unloading your things, you sat down at the giant couch together and decided to plan out the rest of your day.

"When CoCo Curry opens at 11, we can go eat there," you explained as you typed up the plan in a new note. "Tony also snagged us tickets to Tokyo Tower at 3 p.m, so we have a few hours to spare after lunch."

"We can explore the gardens," he suggested. "I know you love doing that. There's a botanical garden in Shinjuku we can go to."

"Oh, that one! I didn't have the chance to go last time, so that's perfect," you added 'Shinjuku Gardens' to your list.

Soon enough you had your entire day planned out, and were ready to head out once again.

CoCo Curry was a quaint, little restaurant that hit you with a wave of tantalizing scents as soon as you walked through the doors and sat down at the bar-style seating area where you could watch the chefs cook your food.

"Gonichiwa," you greeted the chef standing behind the counter.

"Gonichiwa," he smiled back. He asked for your orders, and since Steve wasn't sure what to get you had two orders of your favorite dish.

Besides another couple sitting a few seats away, the restaurant was empty so you got your food in under ten minutes. The steaming hot plates of curry rice were set in front of you, and you felt your mouth water as you inhaled the rich aroma.

"This is so good," Steve spoke in between bites. "I'm literally in love."

"Told you I knew my stuff."

You eventually finished eating, and after getting into a small argument with Steve over who would pay (He ended up winning). "It's payback for ordering me good eats," he explained.

"You said that when you bought me the kokeshi doll," you pointed out.

"Still."

This time you decided to go by foot instead of taking the taxi, as the gardens were only a half-hour or so walk from where you were.

"Right in the middle of cherry blossom season," you sighed as the sweet smell of cherries drifted through the air. "Perfect timing."

You walked around the entire place, stopping every so often to admire the various colorful plants or look up at the pastel pink cherry blossom trees, gravel crunching underfoot with each step you took.

The mid-April breeze lightly fanned your hair around your shoulders. Birds chirped out a delightful melody, flying around the cornflower-blue sky. It wasn't too hot or too cold, and that was one of the many things you loved about visiting Asia during the springtime; the weather was bearable, compared to New York City's below-freezing temperatures in winter. You vividly remembered visiting the botanical gardens in upstate New York on a school trip once, and from then on you'd grown attached.

In the centre of the garden was a large lake with flowering lily pads and on the other side of the bank stood a quaint little temple, with a wooden bridge across the middle so visitors could cross over and look at the koi below.

"It's beautiful here," Steve commented as you made your way down the sidewalk, "I wish they had places like this back home."

"Yeah it is, isn't it," you breathed out, unable to tear your eyes away from the lovely sights. "I could do this all day."

"Hey, that's my line," he joked. You chuckled quietly, slipping your hand into his. He laced your fingers together in response, and you felt the butterflies flutter around in your stomach again the longer he held on, and those butterflies turned into hummingbirds as you looked up to meet his piercing gaze.

You're not sure how long you stay like that, gazing into each others' eyes, but it's only when a little girl stops and asks to take a picture that you pull away.

"Captain America and Agent Y/N!" Judging by her looks, she seemed like she came from the US as well. "Can I get a picture with you guys?"

"Of course, sweetie," you smiled. You brushed off the weird feeling you got when your skin made contact with Steve's, and gestured for her to come closer.

Steve scooped the girl up into his arms as she held your hand, and the mother snapped a few quick pictures before he let her back down.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed before skipping away.

At 2:20 you decided to leave and head out to the Tokyo Tower early so you would be avoiding any possible long lines. You were up at the observation deck within twenty minutes.

"This is just....wow," you breathed out, in awe of the breathtaking view you got as you stared out the panoramic windows, the reflective walls casting thin rays of light onto your faces.

If you thought the view from your penthouse was nice, this was a hundred times better. You had almost nothing preventing you from being able to see the entire city in all directions. The sun was hanging high in the sky, the skyscrapers piercing the horizon like pins and needles.

Steve couldn't help but let his gaze linger on you, the way your face brightened up at the sight of Tokyo's stunning view, the way you laughed and smiled more than you ever did back home. It was a rare sight, and he wished he could see you in this state more often. Oh, the things he'd do to keep hearing your musical laugh and million-dollar smile.

...

The next day was jam-packed with activities. You took a two hour train ride down south to Osaka, exploring the cup noodles museum, shopping downtown in Dotonbori, and stuffing yourself with delicious pastries along the way. Before you headed back, you decided to stock up on groceries at the local market.

You fell asleep almost as soon as your head hit the pillow that night, waking up to somehow finding yourself in Steve’s arms. You both woke up at the same time, confused as to how you had gotten yourselves into this position, but were too embarrassed and tired to ask.

This time, you decided to stay within Tokyo, immersing yourselves in going to as many districts as you could and doing as much as possible.

After a long day exploring the city, you were rather exhausted. With a cup of freshly brewed matcha in hand, you stayed quiet for a while as you soaked in the scenery, watching the city come alive late at night.

When Steve woke up from his nap a few hours later, he found you standing by the window. Smiling to himself, he got up, approaching you and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin atop your head.

"Hi," you greeted, setting your mug down on the coffee table besides you.

"Hey," he murmured into your ear. You closed your eyes and hummed quietly in response, letting your bodies rock back and forth to the rhythm of your steady heartbeats together.

"Watashi wa, anata o aishiteimasu," (I love you.)

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Watashi mo anata o aishitemasu, Cap." (I love you too, Cap.)

You stepped away so you could turn around to face him, and he pulled you back towards him and pressed his lips to yours.

He couldn't help but smile into the kiss, pulling you closer against him.

#avengers imagines #steve rogers x reader #avengers x reader #captain america imagine #captain america x reader #avengers fanfiction #steve rogers one shot #captain america one shot #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction

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nonasuch · 5 years ago

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how I would fix star wars

inevitably, I have been thinking about How I Would Fix Star Wars, and make the parts of TRoS that displeased me into a more coherent story.

unfortunately, to do so will require the use of a time machine and veto power over the Lucasfilm Story Group. but IF I had those things here is what I would do:

I actually would not make a lot of changes to TFA. The main ones would be:

toning down Starkiller a bit as a threat, to a one-shot-per-planet deal but with a faster recharge time

slightly more stormtrooper stuff -- establish what Finn’s leaving behind and give Phasma a little depth.

if possible, put some kind of distinguishing visual marker on the trooper who marked Finn’s helmet.

a small background detail that isn't important yet: after the village massacre at the beginning, show stormtroopers collecting the bodies, trooper and villager alike. if possible, do this after every scene with a significant body count, throughout all three movies.

either give the knights of ren some actual stuff to do or cut them out entirely

show kyle chafing at snoke’s leash, maybe demanding to know more about some of snoke’s various Secret Projects, and being dismissed

give rey a little time to settle in with the Resistance before leaving to find Luke. we don't have to show it much, just make it clear that she’s making a home there and has bonded strongly with Leia

clean up some weird pacing and make the travel times/distances between planets more consistent

honestly other than that I wouldn't change much. I genuinely like TFA a lot and its strength is in how well it establishes the new characters.

for TLJ, some bigger changes but the bones of it I'd leave alone:

make it more clear why the tracking through hyperspace is a big deal and make the solution less of a fetch quest

I really like parts of the Canto Bight plot but I would probably swap it out for something with more stormtroopers in it -- let Finn interact with other troopers and remind us that there are individuals under those helmets

(a recurring joke: Finn can always tell troopers apart when they’re in uniform, and Rose can never figure out how. he thinks it’s because he was a trooper, but no, it's because he’s Force sensitive)

maybe get close to convincing some of them to desert, but either they fail last-minute or the deserters get caught and killed

Finn and Rose escape by the skin of their teeth thanks to a trooper who helps them, letting them know that even if they aren't brave enough to leave, there are plenty of troopers who aren't all-in with the First Order

again, after any major fight show the body cleanup. troopers carrying and stacking the dead in neat rows. start hinting that there is something more ominous here than fanatical tidiness

the Snoke stuff -- make it more obvious that Snoke is orchestrating stuff other than just running the First Order. maybe have Hux ask about the cargo ships they're sending to the Unknown Regions, and get shot down

make part of Kyle’s refusal to leave w Rey due to his burning need to Know All The Secrets, and conviction that as Supreme Leader he could really clean up the joint

once Snoke is dead, show Kyle getting access to his secret files/vaults; do NOT show what he finds there

I'd also want to clean up some wonky pacing and timeline/travel distance stuff, probably, but again I really like most of the movie so it’s nothing major

also keep Phasma around for the next movie! what the fuck, she rules, why would you not

okay so that brings us to TRoS, which… would need a pretty major overhaul.

First of all, we are working under the assumption that I have a time machine, so I made Carrie Fisher go to the cardiologist on the reg starting on day 1 of TFA rehearsals, and she’s fine and able to play the part as she was meant to.

with that in place, here’s how I would restructure:

we keep the Hammer Horror opening scene, but tweak the Emperor’s reveal. he’s much more corpse-y, without the tech umbilical keeping him alive -- a wraith animated by Dark power.

lots of grandiose claims about his unstoppable army and his impending dominion over the galaxy, ultimate triumph over the Light, etc

don't show the armada yet -- just kyle’s reaction, which is genuine fear.

news of the Emperor’s return isn't a broadcast, but a whisper. a transmission from a terrified First Order cargo pilot, who’s learned the truth about his one-way trip to the Unknown Regions. passed through the lower ranks by rumor and hearsay. eventually leaked to the Resistance by an unknown First Order source

I like the idea from the beginning of the movie, that Rey’s trying to speak to dead Jedi through the Force. but it’s not working, and she shares her frustration with Leia

make it clear that she and Leia have a deep, strong bond.

give Rey a Jedi artifact to hunt for. maybe there’s a place or a thing that she thinks will let her commune with fallen Jedi, and that’s what they go looking for.

that lets us keep some of the fetch quest, but the First Order’s not as actively on their tail.

they keep crossing paths anyway, and every time there are troopers doing something worse. maybe at one point they see troopers refuse to massacre civilians, and being killed themselves instead.

also they take Rose with them, because this movie needs more Rose

still have those post-battle scenes of body cleanup. now the cleanup crews are being killed once they’re done

this could be a good use for the Knights of Ren, actually. whatever is happening, they're part of it

Leia is more active throughout: she's on the move, recruiting allies for the Resistance, trying to figure out what's happening in the Unknown Regions

she has an actual scene with Lando, and he goes to Rey on her orders

tweak Poe’s backstory with Zorii. he worked with her while undercover for the Resistance, and left them in the lurch when the General needed him back.

he’d have recruited her, if there had been time, but now he's glad he didn't: most everyone Poe recruited to the Resistance died at Crait.

when Rey crosses paths with Kyle, he’s obviously rattled. he Knows Something that he won't or can't tell her and he's even more fatalistic than usual.

lean harder on the unease/whispers of dissent in the First Order as they're told to do more and more awful things. maybe a scene where someone -- not Hux -- disagrees openly, and Kyle says something that implies that he's getting orders from someone above his head.

this gives Hux a chance to snark at Kyle -- isn't he supposed to be the Supreme Leader, now? who's telling him what to do?

off Kyle’s reaction -- someone is telling him what to do, and he's terrified of them in a way he never was of Snoke.

(keep Hux-as-informant, that was done perfectly)

Rey’s artifact hunt still takes her to the Death Star wreckage, off rumors that Palpatine hoarded Jedi artifacts.

we meet Janna &co. Finn is so relieved and happy to meet other troopers who survived defecting. Janna tells him that there used to be more, that it used to be easier to get out, but more and more troopers have been killed in the attempt, without escaping.

by now it’s clear: there is Something Wrong With The First Order, beyond the obvious.

Rey fights Kyle in the Death Star ruins. Kyle tells her the Emperor wants to turn her to the Dark Side, that he can’t be refused or stopped, that even death won’t let her escape from him.

the fight plays out similarly, but Leia’s distraction doesn't kill her.

after Rey heals him, Kyle faces his fear and talks to Leia via Force bond. He tells her what the Emperor is planning, and it’s Ben Solo who leaves the ruins.

he can give Leia files or some other concrete proof via the same trick he uses with Rey in the movie, because that’s honestly very cool and it was used really well, so we’re keeping that

when Rey talks to Luke on Ach-To, he tells her that Palpatine used the Empire to sow chaos and fear, because that made the Dark Side stronger and gave him more power to tap into.

Luke says: “I think he would have been happy to burn the whole galaxy down, as long as he could rule over the ashes.”

Rey realizes she can’t hide from the Emperor, and knows he’ll never turn her to the Dark. she goes after him.

Leia sends the Resistance to back Rey up and sets out to rally the galaxy with Lando and Chewie

finally, it’s confrontation time! Rey faces Zombie Palpatine, and he reveals his plan in all its glory:

he’s built an army of the dead. ghost ships, crewed by all those bodies we've been watching the First Order collect for three movies.

some of them we recognize, if we’re paying attention: the trooper who marked Finn’s helmet, Lor San Tekka, Hux. there are long-dead clone troopers, little more than skeletons in filthy white armor. half-functional Separatist droids. Resistance fighters and First Order officers killed on Crait. countless civilians.

they’re all dead, all animated by Palaptine’s Dark Side powers, fueled by the strife and chaos he continues to sow throughout the galaxy

he doesn’t want to blow up any more planets. he wants to kill the shit out of absolutely everyone: the end of all life, and all Light. everyone in the galaxy a soldier in his undead army

he wants Rey to strike him down and become the new Sith Empress, ruling over an empire of ashes.

but we are discarding the granddaughter shit, because frankly it is not necessary and makes no sense.

he can just be like ‘ah yes, a feral desert child, powerful in the Force, with no inconvenient ties to hold her back. I've had good luck with those, mostly.’

now, a brief side trip: what is the First Order doing, in the midst of all this?

well, the rank and file are actually not super down with the ‘join the glorious army of the dead’ plan. half of them are in open revolt; some try to run, some seize control of their ships and decide to fight for the living

Phasma leads Team Living. yeah, I kept her for a reason! Gwendoline Christie is great at this!

Ben shows up as before, fights the Knights, does the cool lightsaber trick with Rey. he fights with Leia’s saber.

when Palpatine drains their life force to restore himself, though, something happens differently:

it’s actually Leia’s life force. she gives up her life for her son and for the daughter of her heart, willingly and gladly, knowing she has rallied the galaxy to their aid. she tells them, before she goes, that help is on the way

the giant fleet that arrives to fight Palpatine has First Order ships in it. finally, everyone is on the same side. Palpatine has been playing both sides against each other since Episode 1, but it won't work anymore, now that they know what he wants. the long con is over. they're united against him.

Rey beats Palpatine the same way, Ben revives her the same way, but Leia’s sacrifice means he has enough juice left to survive it.

idk about the kiss; I am Reylo-agnostic

but he’s going to try to shepherd the First Order into something that builds and protects, instead of destroying.

people like Janna and Finn, who got out, and Rose, who lived under their heel, will show him how.

Finn is Force sensitive, and so are some of the other former troopers.

some of them want to become Jedi

Finn wants to follow Leia’s path: do the training so he understands how to use the Force, but he's not meant to be a Jedi. he's going to be a leader -- not a general, hopefully, but a leader for peacetime.

so like. they won! hooray.

Rey takes the name Skywalker, still. Ben is fine with this: he’s a Solo-Organa.

there can be a touching Force ghost reconciliation, or not, whatever

so. that is how to fix star wars. you’re welcome. if anyone out there has a time machine and an in with Lucasfilm, hit me up I guess?

#star wars #spoilers #star wars spoilers #purely notional fiction #long post

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odinsmysteries · 4 years ago

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things about me

I’m just going to offload everything sort of “weird“ I’ve noticed about myself. It’s going to be a scattered post, but I need to write it anyway, and it will help me decide what to talk about with a therapist. If you relate, please do let me know! :)

- when I was very young, maybe four or five, I remember being given a flashing frankenstein head for halloween, and I couldn’t turn it off, so I was seized with dread that it would control my mind and drive me insane, and I started crying and panicking about it

- right up until a couple of years ago, I would need my mother to do the magic circle, where she draws a circle around my head with an imaginary wand before I go to bed, so that bad things and demons couldn’t get into my dreams and do harm to me

- in year 8 I watched a horror film and for months afterwards I was scared of zombies coming out from under various things, usually the oven

- I had to stop reading a book called The Ragwitch by Garth Nix because it so utterly terrified me, it was almost real to me, I thought the book character would control my mind

- even things like slenderman and the rake can work me up into a state of panic, especially at night

- in times of stress I start to think somebody will shoot me in the back, always the back, and sometimes I imagine it so strongly I feel it, or that a sniper is watching me up above, etc, and I’ll think that every car is going to veer off the road to kill me, and that someone will push me whenever I’m up high

- currently I have intrusive thoughts when talking to people about sticking my tongue right under their upper eyelid, which is not as bad as the period of time where I couldn’t look at my mother because I’d extremely strongly become repulsed by her nose, but also imagined myself facesitting her... it was very unpleasant

- for a period of time I felt as if my mum was perhaps a robot

- I used to hold my breath around people I didn’t like or who seemed like targets in some way, because I thought breathing in their breath would transmute me into them, almost

- I thought I was a werewolf for a long time as a child; I’d act differently on a full moon, more feral.. thought nothing of growling at people or howling

- sometimes I feel like the world is intensely malevolent, not that people are necessarily intentionally bad, but the consciousness constructed by society itself is a malevolent entity. Ususally I have some awareness of this, but it can escalate to an incapacitating degree, like it did once. I thought, everything is not really real, and I am not real to everyone else, which is liberating in a way, but I realised how these misunderstandings and interpretations are used maliciously by the evil powers, and that even common everyday objects embody malice and deception, because they rely on us giving common meanings to them and not looking deeper

- I do on occasion feel like I am part of a special group who sees the truth of reality and has an incredibly strong burden to share this, a messenger of sorts, and I definitely see myself as a messenger rather than a messiah or prophet, but it is an elitist notion nonetheless, unless of course it is pursued in the boddhisatva sense, but even then..

- since watching a documentary on satoshi nakamoto, I started questioning if I am actually satoshi nakamoto, or some alternate timeline satoshi nakamoto, part of the same consciousness, which ties into the above line of thinking

- the messenger thing also ties into my graffiti of messages of love and love hearts, and it compensates for the rampant hate I see in the world, almost

- for a time I felt as if there was an entity in my head, for it would comment on my activities, usually in a negative way, and I conceptualised it as a 4D being or soul from the dream-world that I’d accidentally brought with me or had ended up in my inadequate human body by accident

- when I am depressed, my thoughts get very loud, and sometimes they seem to come from someone other than me, as in they are uncontrollable and argue all the time, constant thought-conflict between selves... they are not quite audible voices but they are louder than normal thoughts, if that makes sense

- my dad was very invalidating and didn’t like to feed or give us drinks; he’d call us parasites etc and complain about the fact that our mum wanted children, but obviously always guilt trip us if we didn’t want to see him. He also had a weird thing about my bum that I won’t really go into.

- as a child I was very much in my head, though maybe I still am. I just don’t notice it as much now, because these days, I’m most often alone and in my bedroom, making art or reading etc.

I think this is all I have the energy for writing now, but I actually do feel better for getting it out.

I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD, as a result of my troubles with university, but I can’t help but think that there must me more going on than that.

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

Text

II. Solipsis

Summary: Rogers isn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, he’s incredibly perceptive and remarkably intelligent.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about him or how you feel about this situation; there’s only two weeks to let it go. Both of you must relinquish every individual sentiment to each other and obey the system or else the neural handshake collapses and you’re crushed inside a Kaiju’s maw.

A/N: Video reference for Greco-Roman Wrestling. Please do yourself a favor and imagine Steve Rogers owning your ass. 7.8k words.

Warnings: Language. Bucky angst. Tension.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

You wake around 0500 and flip on the light—a jaundiced splash of color that makes your skin gleam sickeningly yellow. You shake your head, rub your eyes, and try not to linger on last night’s dream.

Lashing rain. A metal shriek. Your world bursting with red.

There’s movement outside the hall—appreciated distractions to rouse you from your thoughts. Footsteps, wheels on smooth concrete, muffled alarms, all sorts of noises clanging around together in the distance. Small comforts of familiarity; you remember how these facilities work.

There’s always something to improve in a Shatterdome. Data to analyze, parts to product and repair, training to be done. From the highest to the lowest position, every single bit needs to run tirelessly like a well-oiled machine.

You will need to as well. The war clock demands it.

You have a maximum of two months to be combat-ready, but you’re not pitching your hopes on that timeline; Kaiju have been known to emerge earlier than K-Science predicts. Rogers broke it down last night: evaluations and endurance building the first week. Sparring the next. Week three will intertwine both more intensely. Week four will be when you face him in front of Fury in the Kwoon Room—prove yourself well-suited to be his co-pilot.

And you had argued shouldn’t we do that earlier? If we’re already not compatible, why waste anyone’s time?

What would waste my time is you fighting me when you’re not ready and throwing the match. You agreed to this, so start acting like it.

Out of all the rattling noises you can hear, his phantom voice rings the loudest.

Drift compatibility doesn’t happen for just any Dick and Jane, and you’re betting on that—but let me tell you again, we’re compatible. Got it?

Fine. Fine. Fine. You’ll keep your thoughts to yourself, but they’re bitter thoughts, truths that he isn’t keen on facing. No, compatibility doesn’t happen for any Dick and Jane. It doesn’t happen much at all.

Most co-pilots are related or coupled for a reason. The potential for alignment is higher with these pairs because they’ve already established a personal connection and know how one another work. There’s history, trust, and something more. Something deep and intrinsic. Something that binds you until you die.

You used to joke that you and Natasha got lucky finding each other at Kodiak. Two misplaced orphans finally given a home in the shape of Decima Red’s Conn-Pod. It was metal and cold, but it was home, even if it was too brief.

Three minutes after waking and the dread has already settled in your gut like debris floating to the bottom of a lake— another layer on top of all that old sludge inside your body but there’s no time to ponder it. You have precisely one hour after breakfast to let your food settle before he joins you in the Combat Room. You brush your teeth and dress.

“Again.”

His voice cracks through the quiet space. Fury’s closed it down for today, keeping the session private. The staff in his right hand hovers above your shoulder before it retreats. From behind a wet curl of hair, you glare.

It’s 2015 and you’re back in Kodiak Island. Except this time, instead of sparring with Nat, Steve Rogers is there in all his effortless glory. Clean-shaven, jaw set, stoic, not a single hair out of place. Ruthless.

And it’s not like you’ve been slacking these past two years; you’ve been on army bases, worked on construction sites, did a short stint in security. You’re in shape and you remember how to fight.

But he is ruthless.

1300 and you’ve been whacked in the head, chest, thighs, ankles, back, and up and down both arms. You’ve gotten a few on him. Some good, most laughable. Only six more hours to go and you’re not sure if there will be lunch in-between.

At this point, you’re too tired to think about your burdensome conscience. Too tired to feel anything but tired. It must be a purposeful tactic from him because the less capable you are to think, the less you’ll worry, and the less you’ll feel inclined to dive into Victoria Harbor and swim yourself away.

“Is this your idea of a partnership?” You snarl when your side contracts in agony, an ache burrowing beneath your soaked shirt. You grasp the staff firmly, ignoring way the muscles of your wrists beg you to stop.

“This is my idea of an evaluation. Focus.” He says it calmly, like you’re supposed to be grateful. “You’ll be better for it tomorrow. In a month, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

Well, you’re not grateful.

“I’d rather not recognize you.”

His grip falters, features flashing amusement at your comment.

You momentarily ponder a few things: the pros and cons being insolent again on the second day when he’s liberally kicking your ass; that the last memorable thing you said to Steve Rogers was fuck you three times in a row; and suddenly, the way he looks with the corner of his mouth turned upward, lips slanting.

Moment over. You take the opening and the tip of your staff stops half an inch from his Adam’s apple, letting it bob up and down. Then, you press it gently to his throat. His lips part, jaw sliding forward incrementally with attitude and another emotion you can’t place.

“I’m hungry,” you assert.

He stops breathing and closes his mouth. When he opens it again, he takes a shallow breath and says, “Alright.”

Taking advantage of your surprise, he immediately seizes the same opportunity you took. His staff pushes against the side of your neck, the cool, smooth wood landing on the slope connecting to your shoulder. The slant of his mouth grows an inch wider. You gulp at the crescent shape of his eyes, bright with mirth.

“Hit the showers,” he says, passive again, “You have one hour for lunch.”

No such luck. Not even twenty minutes pass before someone else fucks up your day.

Across the table, a man sits down with his tray, smile wide and handsome. He’s been watching you from the corner of his eye for a few minutes now, probably wondering if he should come over. Other residents of the Shatterdome have been equally inquisitive, but none as bold.

“Saw you go into the fight room with the big guy. I’m surprised you’re alive.” His head tilts forward as he inspects you playfully, “I’m Sam Wilson.”

You remember your manners, no matter how exhausted you are, and extend your hand, “Good to meet you, Sam Wilson, but I’m not sure about being alive yet.”

An understanding laugh, “Can’t help noticing you’re new. Steve training you for something?”

You shrug, sidestepping his inquiry, “You a pilot?”

Sam Wilson is polite enough to follow your path. “Yeah. Avis Dominion—the flyest girl in the game—that’s me and Riley.”

You know of Avis Dominion. Maroon and silver, propulsion rockets attached to her ankles. She doesn’t fly, of course, but she’s lithe and graceful, the jets giving her quick bursts of speed. Avis has particle dispersal cannons on her back, firing plasma charged ion rails to wound and cauterize. She’s simply incredible, and Sam beams expectantly.

“Think I’ve heard of her,” you respond, lightened by his humor.

Suddenly, a pair of heavy bootsteps pulls your attention sideways. Not even twenty minutes and Rogers is marching forward, hands clenched in fists by his side, mouth pressed into a worried and thin line. Wilson doesn’t even have the chance to greet him before Rogers stops by your hunched-over form.

“He’s up.”

And the partly chewed bite in your mouth threatens to turn sour.

He’s up means he wants to talk to you. And you couldn’t have avoided it forever, but you fantasized that meeting James Barnes might be put off indefinitely.

He’d been in and out of consciousness since last night, lucid enough to speak and question his state, enough to raise hell when he looked down at his left side, and certainly enough to thrash himself open and bloody and needing to be sedated again.

You run your hand through your hair, grip it tightly for a second out of frustration, and finally rise. You’re an eloquent orator in a pinch, so, you groan.

“Fucking fuck me.”

Back at the table, Steve’s attention never leaves the way you uncomfortably walk down the hall. To his left, Sam’s leg bounces impatiently because Bucky’s injury still hasn’t been announced and CNN has called the facility every six hours since they landed post-battle. Everyone has questions and suspicions, and Sam’s last three minutes of snooping wasn’t enough to glean a clear answer.

“Steve, man—what is going on?”

Steve looks gravely back at Sam, watchfully inspecting his expression as he admits, “That was Decima Red’s former pilot.”

A beat passes. Sam blinks once, then twice, and then his eyes fly open.

“Decim—shit— Anchorage 2017? Natasha Romanoff?” Sam clamps his mouth shut, at a loss for words, outraged and impressed all at once.

Decima Red’s story is one of those tales Rangers pass around a campfire—or in their case, a boiler room. Natasha Romanoff was a stiletto dagger— elegant and lethal and blood red. She would show up to events like a goddess, always stunning and magnetic and she never took a bad picture. Sam met her once, at some award show where he had too much champagne and Riley asked him to kindly stop drooling on the pretty lady.

He’s never met her co-pilot until now and he’s not sure if anyone outside The Icebox has. Romanoff would laugh it off when reporters would ask. She’d say her partner’s camera shy and doesn’t like crowds. Then her long lashes would flutter, her sly smile glittering, and men would drop like Kaiju in the ocean.

She was extraordinarily skilled and beautiful.

So when Decima Red washed up as a devastated heap on Anchorage’s shore with only one pilot, no one thought it would be her partner who survived. Romanoff handled the right side, after all. She was the dominant one. The stronger one.

Sam shakes his head, “Steve, what the hell are you up to? Where the hell did you find her? How--”

The slew of queries slowly tapers out as Sam lights up in understanding. But it’s a joyless light and he shakes his head again, dismayed. “You’re recruiting her. She’s replacing Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Steve frowns deeply. The truth always sounds worse from an outsider’s point of view but he didn’t expect much else because it sounds bad in his head, too.

“He’s gonna hate her,” Sam mutters, cracking a joke because if Steve’s had to bring in a new Ranger, it means that Bucky’s more hurt than they’d thought. And the two of them? Closest co-pilots he’s ever had the pleasure to meet.

Their drift was immaculate. Absolutely seamless. As if they were brothers—as if they were twins. And that’s not even – look, Sam Wilson knows some twins. There’s a pair here in Hong Kong and even their connection is nothing like Steve and Bucky’s.

From the moment they step into their drivesuits to the very last blow they land in combat, you’d think they were one single person spliced into two like a damn science fiction novel. The simple sight of Rogers and Barnes walking into the Jaeger bay was uncanny and nearly an act of God. They moved the same. They breathed the same.

Sam knows what happened to Bucky, and what Steve must do in its aftermath, must be killing him.

James Barnes is upright in bed, sheets around his waist, right fist over his thigh. He hasn’t said anything or even looked at you yet and in the strained silence, you find yourself absurdly craving the fight room. At least you know what to expect in there.

Outside of his Ranger biography—which is public knowledge—you know nothing about him. Barnes is reserved on T.V. and in interviews. Having grown up with his co-pilot, their biographies are eerily similar, and so he rarely slips out from Rogers’ shadow and is rarely anything more than stoic. He smiles for the camera, sure—real big and pretty—but never quite true.

It unsettles you. Here sits some kind of modern-day Achilles, heel pierced and torn through-- still more powerful than you.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other when his eyes flicker over to your boots before darting to your face, a quiet breath leaves him. His left shoulder jerks and you look away, tense and apprehensive, not wanting to stare.

A few curious seconds pass before his right hand shakily rises to run through his hair. His fingers tremble as he pinches dark strands, jaw ticking, and you realize James Barnes just had that moment—that moment—when he catches himself trying to use his left arm.

And you know there will be many more of those.

“Jesus...” he mutters, breaking reticence with a venomous hiss, “Fuck!”

Your tired body takes the impact of his words like a car crash. The fight has fled your heart at the sight of him and you’re left regurgitating all those jumbled-up-worse words every Jaeger pilot vomits sooner or later:

You owe a debt. You need it paid. He can’t take it personally. This is neither about you nor him.

“Look,” you begin apologetically, “I didn’t— this wasn’t my idea.”

“I know that,” Barnes retorts, scrubbing his face with the heel of his palm, the skin of it scratching against his chin and jaw. He’s grown a bit of stubble, his usual smoothness replaced by a grey-green shadow. He props himself up with his right arm, legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

“Maybe you don’t think you can do this,” he snorts derisively, “But you better.”

His line of sight is fixed on the floor, right arm flexing with the pressure he exerts on the poor mattress and you watch the way his muscles ripple up into the shade of his sleeve. When he turns to you after a deep breath, his face—sharp cheeks and dignified brow; tall, straight nose bridge; strong jaw and his distinctly wide lips—is fatal.

“Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about who gets into the robot as long as when your fucking feet hit the rig, you’re one-hundred-percent in.”

Barnes’ eyes are piercingly blue. They’re reflective like frosted gunmetal. Cold. Hard. He bares his teeth.

“If there is even one tiny bit of you that doesn’t believe you can, and in the middle of the drift you chase that rabbit, and you get him killed?” His mouth is a wide and devastating slant. “I will dig your corpse out of the Pacific Ocean--”

The door slams open with a crash. Rogers barrels inside with a cafeteria tray of food in hand. They stare at each other before Barnes shoots him an annoyed look and suddenly the threat from only seconds ago disappears with a blink of his silver-blue irises.

“You ruined my moment, Steve.” He states plainly, grabbing at the tray. He gives you a look— half of an amused quirk, tongue flicking at the point of his canines— and then tucks into the meal, moving the platter with his knee. You’re staggered.

It’s silent other than the sound of his chewing, rhythmic and carefree. He even folds a square bit of napkin inside the neck of his shirt to catch crumbs and you’re helplessly trying to reconcile that this is the same person who just promised you he’d find your dead body 10 thousand miles underwater.

The more time passes between his verbal gutting and his cheerful eating, the more your sympathy rots.

A pop of his blue Jello container opening and you snap.

“You know I just fucking got here, right? You—” your finger jabs accusingly at Rogers, “kicked my ass all day, and you—” your finger turns to Barnes, who stops slurping midway, “—sorry about your arm, that’s not my fucking fault—"

“Hey—” Rogers warns, stepping forward, hand out to derail the impending shouting match.

“No. Fuck you, Rogers.” He stumbles back with the force of your two-handed push on his chest, stunned at how quickly you leapt from the wall, “I agreed to it already, assholes. Maybe it’ll help your cause a little to not keep pissing off the other half of the fucking robot.”

And because you’re both incensed and starved from having lunch interrupted, you yank Barnes’ Jello from his shocked-slax grip and shake it into your mouth. A loud crinkle fills the otherwise silent room when you fiercely throw it into the trash bin and stomp off.

All the atmosphere gets eaten up by your temper. It’s silent like a black hole, nothing but the receding clomps of your irritation in the distance.

Bucky waits for your footsteps to pass before he begins to laugh, bright and astounded, quick puffs of air passing over his lips. He looks at his hand, still out in front of his chest, fingers curled around nothing. He looks at the trash bin by the door, plastic liner crumpled inward with the force of your arm.

He looks at Steve, standing with his hands uselessly by his side, an array of emotions passing over his face. He’d been calm—really, really calm—kept it pushed down and pacified, but it’s just the two of them now, and Steve looks like he could cry when he sees Bucky’s shoulder. He looks like he could level the Shatterdome.

“I’m fine.” Bucky says, rolling his eyes dramatically, humor gone. “Quit your blubbering.” He tilts his head towards the open door, “She’s tough, like you said.”

Decima Red’s pilot, the one who brought her skeleton back to Anchorage through a storm, of course she’d be. When Steve proposed it— explained it to him, practically wheeled out a chalkboard so Bucky could see his whole plan—Bucky was pissed. He’d just lost a fucking arm, after all. And now he was losing his fucking robot.

But he slept on it, thought about it some, knew Steve was right.

He trusted Steve. Always have, always will. Whoever Steve decided on needed to be more than just tough. Steve needed reliability. Conviction.

They needed to match that Rogers persistence. Stubborn. Smart. Torn open by guilt and walking around with the world on their shoulders as if it’s their burden alone.

Yeah. It’s perfect.

Bucky looks at the blue specks of Jello clinging to his fingertips and sighs, “You’re gonna have to break her.”

Steve nods. He knows.

Time blurs as routine gives way to monotony.

Your sanity is precariously tethered to lunches and dinners between psych evals and full-body exams. In the two weeks you’ve been here, maybe there’s been one rest day. You hoard what comfort you can from the time you limp from the fight room to the second your back hits the mattress to the bedside alarm blaring.

Ephemeral relief also trickles in by way of conversations with other inhabitants of the facility.

The rest of Hong Kong’s STRIKE team take to your presence well enough. Co-pilots Wilson and Riley; the Maximoff twins, Wanda and Pietro; cousins from Wakanda, Erik and T’Challa; Odinson brothers, Thor and Loki.

They’re supportive and encouraging, but certainly not naïve. They keep their distance, the entire thing like a caged animal they can view, but not interact with wholly. You’re here as James Barnes’ tentative replacement, still just a prospect before anyone can entertain the idea of becoming attached to you.

Not to mention, you’re a deserter. Fucked off from the Ranger life and went off the grid. Most co-pilots died together—which was the honorable thing to do—and the rare few who are unlucky enough to survive at least come back to their Shatterdomes to continue their righteous work. You understand why they’re guarded.

Sam Wilson is the one person most willing to ignore all that, it seems. He hunts you down in the dining hall, finds you on morning runs, is kind and easy-going. He grabs an extra tray when you’re hobbling into lunch and plays basketball with you when you’re well enough to amble around the court.

He keeps you grounded with reminders: Rogers is a hard ass, but look—past that, he’s just a dude, you know? Trying his best to keep it all together—and there’s a lot to keep. Shit… you seen this place. I couldn’t do it.

The whole world wants to suck his dick, Wilson. You too?

Appreciate you, but man’s not my type. But hey, I’m just sayin’—maybe the world’s onto something.

You get a laugh, and you get to complain to at least one sympathetic ear about how Rogers seems adamant on turning you into a blood bag, or how Barnes is gleefully spectating, or how Fury is willfully ignorant. You get at least one person in your corner when Rogers yells at you for mouthing off—for fighting him in a wrong way—again.

You wish you were jogging the perimeter with Sam now, but this morning there’s only persistent torture.

Apparently today is, once again, exclusively about kicking your ass.

The rules are: no kicks, no punches, nothing below the waist. Traditional wrestling only, which means your hands can barely get halfway around him before he takes you to the mat effortlessly.

All morning you’ve been pinned. Shoulders and waist constantly under his palms, flipped sideways and upside down. His reach is longer. His hold is stronger.

Barnes stands against the wall, shoulder in a sling, observing with amusement. Sometimes he clucks his tongue. Other times he smirks. He walks in and out like he’s at the movies. Fucker.

You cuss when you land on the mat for the hundredth time. The wet smear of your forehead glistens when you roll over, clutching your side. You’d woken up this morning feeling alright, taking to heart some of Sam’s advice, attempting to be understanding a little more each day, but with the way this session’s going, you’re headed for a backslide.

Your legs are shaking. Too hot all over even with your pants rolled up and shirt knotted at your hip. You plant your feet stubbornly, pacing around Rogers. A touch too soon, a weave too late. He slams you on the floor.

“This is—fuck!” you scream, “—a fucking unbalanced fight, Rogers!”

“I know,” he responds from above you, a single bead of sweat collecting on his placid brow. He gets up, yanking you along, and watches you try again.

Two seconds pass before he’s hooked, biceps locking beneath your chest, spinning you through the air, and coming down hard on top of your back. Another crash into the mat, another muffled scream of pure, helpless rage.

You’ve had it. It’s been hours of his domination and your humiliation. You’re done with wrestling and done with him. Your knees and hips dig into the plastic, fury stoking the fight, fully intending on throwing him off but he shifts immediately. His chest presses into your spine, thigh flexed diagonal over both of yours.

“Don’t.” He says, shallow breaths heavy over the top of your head.

“Get off me, asshole! You’re too fucking big to wrestle with—I’m not Barnes!”

Rogers only grunts and bears down until you’re motionless and gasping beneath him. The air is hot, too hot. Scorching waves roll from your body, between his chest and your back, scalding with heat and embarrassment.

Your cheek drives into the plastic, burning with submission. Early stinging of pre-emptive tears prickles your eyes as frustration comes to a head, seizing your body and mind, and you feel up to your throat in despair. Anger makes you want to thrash but weakness makes you obedient. There’s nothing to be done but clench your fists and bite it back, swallow the tears, chew your lip bloody.

He is too big and too strong and too overpowering.

It was different wrestling with Natasha; you were closer in size and well-matched. It was a good recreation of what Kaiju combat may be if ranged weapons were to fail. She’d be the Kaiju, you the Jaeger. Then you’d switch. It felt like preparation.

This doesn’t. This feels like a setup for failure. This feels like a lesson.

And suddenly, you shut your eyes. God damn him. God damn him. God damn him.

Allowing insight to cool your temper, you stop resisting and go slack. Your fists unclench, head dropping to lay on your sweat-slick forearm. Surrender vibrates through your chest, tremors undulating to the rhythm of his breathing.

You’ve figured it out.

Rogers lets off some pressure and you can finally take a good breath. Slowly, he moves. His weight carries to one side of his torso, then his knees and he rocks off you, rising.

His hand splays over your shoulder blade, thumb pushing gently against the back of your neck before he hoists you up by the collarbone. It’s a delicate grasp as opposed to his previous ones. Calloused finger pads avoid the bruising on your shoulder from old hits.

Barnes looks on as his hand curls over your bicep, melting around the shape of your muscles, vice-like but merciful. The heat of your body becomes indistinguishable from his as he props you securely.

“You understand?” He asks gently, “Why it’s an unbalanced fight?”

His brow furrows, earnest blue eyes respectfully apologetic, searching yours for acknowledgement and perhaps forgiveness. You press your lips together tightly.

Of course you do.

He’s breaking you piece by piece until you’re malleable and pliant, willing to surrender your ego and give yourself over to a force much larger than your personal reality. You haven’t vocalized rebellion since the second day, and many days have passed, but it’s obvious how you struggle against the current.

Rogers isn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, he’s incredibly perceptive and remarkably intelligent.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about him or how you feel about this situation; there’s only two weeks to let it go. You can’t hold onto your pride, your resentment, or your reservations about any of it in the con-pod, and you can’t have one single fleeting thought about failure.

Both of you must relinquish every individual sentiment to each other and obey the system or else the neural handshake collapses and you’re crushed inside a Kaiju’s maw.

Barnes was right: you’re either one hundred percent in, or you’ll get him killed. So in today’s simulation, no, you’re not the Jaeger and Rogers isn’t the Kaiju.

He is the drift. It’s equal parts cruel and effective.

Today’s session is a reminder. When you fight the drift, it will take you down hard and fast, there’s no changing that. Only in silence will it support you, and only in silence will it keep you alive.

“Do you understand?” He says again, in a whisper. His lips are parted, turned down solemnly. “You can’t push back. Do you understand?”

Sam Wilson’s petition for Steve Rogers’ character echoes.

He’s just a dude. Trying his best to keep it all together. And there’s a lot to keep.

You manage a nod despite the aching throb of your skull. Shame crawls up your arms, erupting beneath the clutch of his fist. You nod. You’ve learned your lesson. Of course you understand.

After that, everything seem to flatten itself out. You heed Sam’s words, bitterness chipping away in the patient flow of Rogers’ direction until it becomes smooth like a time-worn pebble. You no longer fight the slipstream of your situation and rather become more mindful of his labor-- more appreciative.

You can either be a fatalist and fixate on how much you’d rather not be here, or, like he said, you can get on board.

If Barnes is a modern-day Achilles, Rogers might as well be the Hercules. Some radiant demi-god tasked with backbreaking labours in the form of beast-slaying. Unlike Hercules though, he’s all mortal, burdened even worse with mortal toils.

You might as well not be yet another thing that gets him killed in the end. It’d be further hell on your conscience and Barnes would personally scalp you, anyway.

So you iron out your attitude and grow friendly, and on a Thursday morning, he shows up with his hands tucked into his pockets. Barnes is to his side, matching in posture, his new prosthetic arm gleaming black and gold.

“Ready?”

They walk in conjunction. Left foot, right foot, hips following a perfect cadence.

His blonde head turns back at you with an expectant grin, “You excited?”

A snort, “You’ve dangled it in front of me for weeks. What do you want to hear, huh?”

There’s no offense in your words, only a hint of mischief because you’ve discovered the joy taunting him brings. Amusement in the form of riling him up because he’s surprisingly easy to rile, because there’s many ways to do it, and because you’re a damn fast learner.

Steve Rogers might be athletic and quick, but he’s terrible at guarding his legs. It makes his cheeks flush when you repeatedly strike his thighs and even more so when Barnes cackles from the corner. It’s infinitely better than any entertainment you can buy.

He gets you back, though, biding his time until your jogs, then laps you twice to keep you humble. The best kinds of friendships are built off torment, besides. You’re hopeful.

“I’m not convinced you’re excited,” he sings now, stopping abruptly so that you bump into his back with a grunt of surprise.

Barnes smirks, “He gets you every time. It’s sad.” Cheeky bastards, but they pick up the pace again, threading through the hallways.

They’re finally taking you on a proper tour of the Shatterdome. Four weeks and you still need a map to get around. They’ve kept you from wandering, kept others from being your guide, kept you on your fucking toes because they’re absolute little shits.

It’s friendship.

The first stop is the enormous Jaeger hangar.

Stretching on and back, it’s a mess of moving parts and electricity. Cranes up and down, engineers and workers in constant motion. They walk you across the main bridge of the perimeter, taking leisurely steps to let you catch your dazed breath and absorb the view.

The anticipation was clever provocation on his part, created in jest, but the sight of it now in front of you feels like a kick to the teeth. Your teasing demeanor drops.

The Mark-3’s are beautiful despite their conditions. Scratched and dented, wind-bleached in places, but all gorgeous and exclusively equipped to best fit their Rangers. Titanium cores, angel wings, plasma casters. Assault mount sting-blades, K-Stunner warheads, sentry treads. The list of features running on and on and on.

Unique traits for unique pilots.

Pain strikes your heart.

Decima’s Crocus-9 reactor core was uranium powered and instead of angel wings or blades, she had extendable plasma batons. You and Natasha amputated six Kaiju with them. A 1700-ton ballerina, she was created to fit your partnership’s style— brutal but dexterous. The fight was always good in Decima—always, always, good.

You’ll never have that with Orion. You’ll never have that with Rogers.

In the distance, voices shout and echo over gears and metal joints. Forklifts whirr and beep, personnel scrambling like dedicated worker ants.

Two years without Decima and Natasha. Over seven hundred days and each one felt too long, stretched, infinite, miserable. Waking up was just another twenty-four hours to bury like how you buried Nat. But now, here you stand—returned to the front of the continued Jaeger Program that’s moved on without her, and the last two years comes to crush you in a tidal wave all at once.

You feel powerless, distraughtly wishing you were back in your Jaeger. You wish you were stronger than you are— wish you could take on the tidal wave.

“Hey,” Barnes calls, urging you forward his perceptive, sharp eyes. “Stay with us.”

You quell the hurt and keep up.

At the end of the ramp, Tony Stark teeters on a crane. His face is covered by a thick iron mask and he’s welding something tiny on Orion Bravo’s left flank. Over the banging machinery and screeching blades of metal on metal, he yells, “Good to finally meet you, kid!”

You don’t get a chance to holler back.

“Gotta say, Decima was one of my personal favorites,” and you flinch.

Nobody notices. Life moves on. Tony Stark does so even faster.

“Still damn proud of her after all these years! I know exactly where she is in Oblivion Bay—if this—” he gestures vaguely to the three of you on the walkway, “—doesn’t work out, let me know and I can go get your girl. Sure, her chest’s all ripped out—” he motions to his pecs, and you recoil each time his blowtorch sizzles past, “—and I’d be breaking my back to get those pieces right— but hey, a little boob job isn’t gonna hurt anyone. If you ask me, people could use more of ‘em!”

You’re speechless. You finally meet the Tony Stark—the genius mind behind every single Jaeger. His endless vat of brilliance designed them, breathed them to life, equipped and armed them, made them perfect, and— boob job?

“What?” You whisper, feeling your entire body drain of warmth.

Rogers tucks his chin to his chest in an attempt to hide his smile. Barnes speaks up, dismantling the silence of your shock with strategic and considerate intention. He snorts a clipped sound at Stark and says simply, “He’s on speed. Don’t listen to him.”

Life is moving on all around you in rushes of sound and color. The noises of the Jaeger hangar blare in your ears. The blues of Barnes and Rogers’ eyes flash like lighthouse beams and you feel yourself ebb and flow in the current of time, like a buoy floating toward the shore, and suddenly— strangely— you realize you’re laughing.

They share looks before grinning themselves. You wipe the corners of your eyes with a final smirk and run your hands through your hair.

He was right: you hardly recognize yourself. Monotony has come and pass and now you find comfort in the routine. You’re stronger, too, hitting harder and moving faster, matching his tempo and technique. You parry his every punch, slip from his grasp, deflect his force with your skill.

There’s louder talk in the Shatterdome the closer you get to proving day. Your presence no longer feels uncertain.

“Stop dicking around, Steve.”

Barnes is leaning against the wall, watching the way Rogers pads around you like a panther. Two long strides and the heavy staff comes down an inch away from your forehead. He spins it in one hand like a drumstick, kicking his legs leisurely as if you’re no threat at all.

“Point,” Barnes comments. He’s acting as judge today, another perspective on the potential of compatibility. The Kwoon Room’s got your name on it next to a time slot, the official fight scheduled for tomorrow when you’ll be proving yourself in front of a crowd.

Rogers backs up with a chuckle, goes right too carefully, and you land on his thigh in retaliation. The smack sounds like it hurts. A few feet away, the Maximoff twins pause their sparring to look over in amusement.

“Point.”

A huff, he hisses between his teeth at the sting. “This how you wanna play?”

A return whack on your arm rings out before you can respond- much harder than you hit him originally. It burns. Steve fucking Rogers. Oh, you wanna play.

“Point. Hey, careful.”

You slap his bicep with your staff and it leaves a red welt on his skin.

“Watch it. You’re gonna mark each other up.”

He returns it to your lower back and you hit him next in the same spot. His mouth opens indignantly, but Barnes has had enough of childishness, coming up behind him and yanking the back of his head. Quick as a whip, he kicks Rogers’ knees out and picks up the weapon, aiming it at you menacingly.

His arm glimmers like a warning beacon.

“Drop it, sweetheart.” And you grin.

Sweetheart. Barnes only says it when he’s feeling fully annoyed, which, both you and Rogers are particularly good at making him. If drift compatibility could be determined by how much two people can piss off another one, Orion would be looking at a new pilot right the fuck now.

You put both hands up in the air in mock surrender and he rolls your staff away with his foot. Rogers is on his back, chuckling and rubbing the back of his knees.

“Isn’t it obvious the two of you are suited?” Wanda speaks up from the corner.

Pietro stands by her side, fists wrapped in bandages on his hips. “Three of you, truly.”

“It’s just formality,” Rogers replies to Wanda, “Fury wants what he wants.”

“What Fury wants is for the two of you to get in the robot.”

From the shadows, because he’s a dramatic son of a bitch, the marshal steps forward. You immediately fix your posture, pulling Rogers up by the hand until he stretches himself tall next to you.

“I’ve seen what I needed to see.” The marshal looks you up and down, standing stiffly next to your awaiting co-pilot. “An estimated three weeks before the next breach and time is of the essence, Rangers.” He pulls his wrist from his sleeve and taps on the leather watch rhythmically, not bothering to give any of you another glance as he sweeps himself from the room.

“Hangar. Suit up five minutes ago.”

In his wake, your harried expression says it all: I’m not ready—I don’t think can. Your eyes frantically find them, emotions spiraling out of control, panicked and shaken. There is a logic to formality—you’re still working yourself up for the fight. You were supposed to have more time to prepare for the next part. Twelve hours or not, that’s still time.

But you’re being thrown into the cockpit now.

They compose themselves for your sake, all hints of levity gone. There’s determination and severity in their expressions.

In unison, because they know each other in ways you don’t yet, because they’ve been in each other’s heads, two pairs of controlled blue reply: You can. You must.

Rogers stares at your chin in the Drivesuit room, both stripped down to your underwear. His muscles are sweat-slick, dappled rose with exertion as the two of you shove your limbs into new skin until you’re encased in black circuitry. Technicians zip the first layer up, then retreat to other cabinets with haste.

Your hands are balled into fists, mouth set grimly as you fight the urge to scream or crumble. It’s been two years since you’ve been in battle armor. Even worse, it’s been two years since you’ve been in someone else’s head.

The polycarbonate shell gets snapped on. The spinal clamp sinks its hooks in.

He steps forward, geared up in matching polished white. The technicians nod and leave the two of you to privacy knowing that in just a few moments there will be none left; the entire hangar will be an audience.

“Hey,” he calls, voice low and rigid, “You’ve done this before—you know how it works. It’s just a test run. No rabbits. No modesty reflex. Got it?”

The biggest setback to the neural handshake—besides chasing rabbits—mistakes made by rookies and greener Rangers, are what PPDC psychologists call the “modesty reflex”. It’s the instinctive shielding of personal information during a drift, cluttering your thoughts with barriers to keep someone out, and the exact thing that will shut down any chance of alignment.

Simply put, it’s about sex.

“You just eye-fucked me in there. I think we’re past modesty.” A useless attempt at a joke to soothe your rattled mind. Sex is the lowest on the totem pole of things you give a fuck about in the drift. There’s nothing Rogers could learn about you that he likely hasn’t ever thought or experienced for himself. You’re both adults. Sex is merely biology.

He takes the helmets off their stands, holding one to you. Your fingers curl underneath and press tightly into the molding to keep themselves from shaking.

“It’s Tasha,” you whisper with a tremble, “I’ll find her in the drift. And—”

The admission makes him swallow, thick and nervous. You mean to say, and you’ll find Barnes.

It’s a trauma that’s been seared into his brain—a cruel truth to air—but it’s true all the same. The worry is that once you see Nat, he’ll see Barnes, and you’re afraid that after all this time avoiding her memory, you won’t be able to let her go again. Your weakness will dislodge his focus, ruin the drift, tear apart the alignment. Tear yourself apart along with it.

You’re afraid.

He’s still holding onto the other side of your helmet. His grip is tighter and firmer, and it keeps you steady enough.

“You can’t chase her,” he urges, “But if you do, I’ll come find you.”

He sounds sure, and you nod for both your sakes.

A hundred people stand in wait, hands on their hips in anticipation as Steve enters the cockpit with you by his side. Sparse clapping begins behind the glass. Engineers, flight crew, technicians, Rangers. Bucky is next to the LOCCENT officer, Shuri, at her monitors, watching electrical impulse levels rise and fall.

He’s spent all month with you, mentoring in some ways, giving space in others. He meant it on that god-awful hospital bed—get Steve killed and Bucky’s wrath would move heaven and earth to wreak vengeance. Steven Grant Rogers, his whole life being Bucky’s responsibility, now placed into two hands that are not his.

He looks at his left arm, the Stark-made prosthetic leering up at him like an excruciating reminder. Not his. Not his. He looks to the blue screen, projecting lines of data. Two bodies slowly arranging into one. One similar, one—not his.

He wants to trust you. He’s learning to trust you. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth.

The rig locks in place. Feet, shoulders, arms, backs. It’s comforting and jarring, facing the flickering projections of the heads-up display, seeing the skeleton of Orion Bravo so similar yet so alien from Decima’s. You don’t dare look to your right, don’t dare think about Nat’s face over his.

You miss her, god damn it, you miss her. A panicked breath. A low, quiet, whine you hardly register as yourself.

Shuri’s voice comes over the speaker. Her usual cheery tone has been replaced with firmer speech, all business, “Orion, are you ready?”

Rogers mouths calm down and punches the corresponding buttons. He gives you a nod and you return it in good faith. Calm down.

“Initiating Neural Handshake in three—” Shuri activates the system, “—two—” Electricity shoots up your spinal column.

The first rip of immersion is searing hot and freezing cold. You try to remind yourself you’ve done this before, that you know what to expect. It’s been done—yes—and it’s been done well.

Trust the drift. The drift is silence.

Your thoughts subdue as the first tendrils of Steve’s consciousness bleed into yours in the form of red-bricked alleyway and summertime. There’s a sweet breeze rushing over your face before time slows and the seconds stretch into years.

A silver bicycle. His feet on the metal pegs. Barnes, plump-faced and pink-nosed from sunshine, grinning and whooping. Seven and eight. On top off the world. “—two—“

Past and present cease to exist. You’re in the sun, too. They’re older now. Thirteen, fourteen. Bruised from street fighting, sharing popsicles as both a treat and an icepack.

All at once, it comes.

Art school, army, academy. Graduation, first drift, first drop. Barnes by his side every step of the way. They laugh, they cry. Flashes too highspeed to be wholly memory, but you feel it flooding and soaking your brain. You feel it like intuition. It burns. It chills. It’s gone. “—two—”

His hands become your hands. His body, your body. He’s swimming in your every thought. A flash of crimson streaks through your line of vision. You impulsively turn to face it. “—one—”

Hey! Let it go. It’s your voice and his voice blended. You listen, flinching at the abrupt sound, knee-jerk reactions firing off, fear beginning to chew at the center of your brain, spreading out slow and thick.

Don’t chase the rabbit. “—one—”

A figure appears at your side, tall and quiet. He’s half torn open, red like Nat, with big, ghostly irises peering down and you hear yourself calling his name:

Bucky?

Don’t! Steve demands, don’t look, please. I can’t— I can’t either. You quiet your pounding heart at his pleading, forcing the image from your mind.

Trust the drift.

Steve continues to sink in like a palm running from the edge of your temple to the back of your skull, tugging your head toward the blue sky of his eyes. It feels like his hand— it feels like your hand. Your body lifts, weightless, secured only by a single hold. He’s everywhere, inside your muscles, your pulse, your heartbeat, like he’s been a part of you your entire life. Like the way Natasha used to feel, he’s vivid and alive, thoroughly woven through.

Okay?

The two of you look each other without looking at each other. A nod of his head— your head— vaguely registered as real movements.

Shuri returns both of you to time’s fixed pace. Her voice lifts the trance.

“—Neural Handshake complete.”

Steve’s right arm moves forward. Yours continues the motion. Orion brandishes its shield in salute.

The drift is silent, but the entire facility has erupted into cheers.

“Yes! It’s good!” Shuri exclaims from her seat. A loud exhale followed by victorious punches at the air and she can’t help grinning so big her face begins to ache.

She looks over at Bucky, standing with a smile, both proud and pained, and places a gentle palm on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says calmly, eyes still shut. “It’s good.”

#marvel #pacific rim #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes

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